


IT: The Lima Collective

by G_Rafff



Category: Glee, IT - Stephen King
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Horror, Multi, Mystery, Romance, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/G_Rafff/pseuds/G_Rafff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with Stephen King's "IT." Set in Lima, Ohio rather than Derry, ME.<br/>The Horror returns to Lima.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN

# PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN

## CHAPTER ONE:

### THE STORM RAGES ON (1993)

 

  

 

* * *

You may have heard this story before. The terror- that was supposed to have ended with the final blow delved by the original seven – returned, so far as this tale can tell with a 1993 Sun- Jewel Barbie by the name of Tannie. Swept away by a strong gust of wind into a gutter clogged with deadened leaves and debris.  


The sidewalks were still slick with wet and ice from the nights freezing temperatures. And as stampede’s of rain water continued their trickle down muddied streets and waylays – the image of a newly clothed Sun-Jewel Barbie tanning amongst her Barbie Porsche 911 Cabriolet reflected the storm clouds above, the water still dripping from the stationary wheels.  


You could say that the storm of ’93 was unexpected – that was so, but in many other ways than one it was also a dispensation of the worry that still plagued the dwindling town of Lima. The fear had never left you see – and with the image of saturated sand bags along the banks of The St. Evan’s, a new fear was borne in the wind and the rain. A terror that no one could have anticipated, and that no one had ever known before.  


A small girl waiting in the wings of Laurence Boulevard could be seen on that fateful morning of fall 1993, sitting alongside Tannie Barbie, pushing an un-motorized car along the outside of a concrete curb with the joys of her imagination. Her name was Samantha Ivy Fabray; she was seven and a half. The remaining puddles leaving splotches of gravel and mud around the heels of her polka dot wellies. Her ladybug parka billowing out around her small torso and shoulders as the wind danced around her remarkably golden hair; she could feel the first drops of an afternoon rain melt against her cold skin. Having forgotten about the worry her parents must be suffering at her extended hours of play in the wet and salty breeze.  


Her sister Quinn was not here – she was recovering in bed at home with a broken wrist, her mind still hazy from the painkillers she had received from Lima General the day before. And while Samantha had wished that her older sister (only by a measly three years) could come out after the downpour to play with her – she knew that today, it simply couldn’t be so.  


As Samantha turned idly to walk ballet instructed feet along a well-balanced curb, Tannie Barbie clutched tightly within her small hand – she could see the remains of the great storm still clinging on to Lima’s streets. Redding Larrity, The Laramie Brothers Frankie and Ulysses, along with Erin Scholes could together be seen packing new sandbags along the far sides of Laurence Boulevard. Their brows were sweaty, and the orange and yellow reflected LIMA TOWNSHIP slickers clung to their bodies as they flung the bags against the wet concrete. The St. Evan was the heart of the destruction for the people of Lima, Ohio. And while it’s murky water was calm today – it wouldn’t stay that way for long, as the clouds loomed dangerously overhead. “The storm will pass,” they said as the rain continued. “It won’t be as bad as ’56,” they reminded themselves. And still – the water rained on, saturating the soil with it’s clarity, contaminating the tainted concrete with its foreboding. There had been hundreds of deaths in the storm of ’56 – the St. Evan’s creek was relentless in its duties. Some of the adults still remembered the fear, but this year “It won’t flood,” they said. But here they were, in a misty and foggy Lima morning – worrying their teeth beneath their lips as the St. Evan rose with almighty force. The Rocketeer Bridge could be seen past the streetlights of the intersection of Laurence and Eisenhower. The beginnings of pit pattering of rain droplets could be seen descending past its railings into the St. Evan below.  


There had already been a casualty a little ways southwest in Shawnee Township. A Mr. Matthew Lloyd – his car was found two days ago flipped along OH-117 W, his tires caked with mud and fallen leaves. His body was missing from the vehicle. It turned up the next morning floating down the St. Evan creek. His cheeks were already puffy – and the stench of his death could be smelled rather than seen as the Police Department removed his form from the murky water. He was missing a foot, and the end of his nose, and there had been gashes and chunks of flesh clinging on to his weathered bones and thighs. “It was the fish,” they said as the coroner zipped his body into a black body bag– how wrong they had been.  


The power lines in most of the county were down. The storm having ripped through the lines with billowing pines and branches; It would be hours or days before the connection could be restored; the daylight a bright marker against the rainclouds that have wreaked so much havoc.  


As the day continues on, Samantha Fabray continues her walk down Laurence Boulevard, her feet trailing one another precisely along the thinning curb. The tendrils of her ladybug parka extending out behind her with a gust of wind while she laughs while she loses her footing; her smile is wide and void of a few teeth as she unconsciously walks to her much too immature death. The clutch she once held around Tannie Barbie loosens as Samantha attempts to right herself against the concrete. Her smile widening as she praises the day. She wishes that Quinn could be out here joining her. _Her Quinn_. Her sister is only ten, and while that seems like a lifetime away for Sammie, she knows that she can’t wait to reach that double-digit milestone herself. She looks down at the plastic billowing hair of Tannie in her new Barbie clothes, and smiles. Knowing that Quinn would be out here with her if she could. Rolling along in her rollerblades and skating around and about the small cracks and tilts in the pavement – probably telling Sammie all about some new facts that she read about in her  Zoobook that day. She wishes that were the case – and since it cannot be true, her light hazel eyes – brighter than her sisters – shine with the thought of telling Quinn all about it later when she comes home.

  


* * *

Quinn Fabray sits up on their living room couch with a blanket covering her waist and a pillow propped up beneath her head and beneath her arm. The cast is already scratching her, and as her eyes clear she can feel the dull ache of her freshly broken wrist throbbing beneath the plaster. She clicks the remote to a new station, settling her eyes on the screen as the familiar music of Goosebumps catches her attention. She sees a quick motion out of the corner of her eye, and before she can turn her head Sammie is racing for the sofa to join her. Tannie is already settled on the coffee table in the nude, an array of clothes fanned out around her plastic body. “Did you get the clothes out of my toy chest Sam?”  


“Yeah, I think I got the right ones.”  


“The polka dot top, and the jean shorts. You didn’t take my new ones did you?”  


Quinn’s voice is still hoarse with sleep. But Sammie shakes her head as she places the small clothes on the table, making sure to follow Quinn’s eyes as she pulls them over Tannie’s arms and legs. Sammie has always listened to Quinn. Her sister could be strict and mean to people that didn’t know her, but not Sammie. She waited for any other instruction and after getting none, she turned her gaze to the television, gasping as she saw the familiar glowing Goosebumps sign float along the screen. The glowing eyes of a dog sticking to her memory like a bad dream.  


“Oh, sorry Sam. I forgot that you can’t watch this one.” Quinn’s mouth had turned down into a small frown as she turned the channel quickly. When Sammie opened up her eyes again it was to a familiar theme song, and she turned around slowly to watch the Magic School Bus; her heart now beating at a much slower pace.  


“I like this one.” Sammie smiled as she tapped her small fingers to the rhythm of the theme song, her lips forming over the words silently.  


“I’m sorry I won’t be able to play with you outside today. Mommy sort of made me stay inside. My arm still kind of hurts.”  


Sammie turns and looks at the brand new cast on her sister’s arm. It’s oddly foreign and seems to be out of place. But Samantha smiles nonetheless as she strokes the baby blue plaster softly with her finger. And when she sees the pained look on Quinn’s face she remembers that Quinn hurts. With a quick resolution she rises from the floor by the coffee table to hurry upstairs to her parents master bedroom – sure to find the familiar blue bottle that she’d seen before. Her wellies make squeaky noises against the hardwood floor and she smiles as she skids down the long hallway past her bedroom and Quinn’s. She can hear her mother faintly downstairs humming an unfamiliar tune from the kitchen – and as she bounds through the bedroom door to a darkened room she pauses. The shades are still drawn in here, and no light can come through the large window. She can see the sheets on the bed still haven’t been drawn. And while she knows that this is her parent’s room – she can’t help the shiver that has suddenly run down her spine. The bathroom door hangs ajar over in the corner, and the light is pitch black there. She eases her way over and a faint smell assaults her senses. It is her mother’s perfume. Chanel No. 5 – it’s familiar, but underneath it there lies a moldy essence. That smell of decay and rot, it burns her nostrils and she can’t escape the prickles that have risen across her pale skin.  


Perhaps this is what the sewers smell like –  


Where has the light gone?  


An un-comfortableness settles beneath her chest and before she can reign it back the dog from the television screen is assaulting her vision. The yellow eyes are focused on her back, and she can hear his paws scratching against the hardwood from the hallway behind her. She knows that that was just nightmares. Quinn had reassured her time and time again that things like that weren’t real. But as she enters the bathroom of her parent’s master suite and flicks the light switch that won’t turn on – she knows that her fears are real.  


_HURRY_ , the lights don’t work Sammie.  


Don’t let the dog get you…  


His eyes…I can feel them on my back – It’s not _REAL_. It’s not—  


Her small fingers hurry as she opens the medicine cabinet above the sink. Her fingers toying with all of the bottles – she spots the one that she’s looking for and takes a deep breath. Frowning as the stench now floods her mouth. She can taste it. There is a gurgle from the bathtub to her right, and she flinches as she latches on to the small bottle of Advil and makes a run for the door. She has to reach the light again—her steps are too slow, and she’s sure she can hear growling growing behind her, paws descending on the back of her billowing Parka as she runs for the light of the hallway. She knows that she won’t make it – and as she reaches the door, she flinches her eyes closed as she shuts the wood on its hinges. Finally opening her eyes to the light of the hallway – unsure of why she lets her nightmares always get the better of her. Quinn would be disappointed if she knew.  


She bounds down the stairwell – the image of the dog burning faintly in the background as she makes her way back to the sofa. Quinn is looking at her curiously and smiles when she notices the familiar bottle in her sister’s hand. Sammie smiles back and settles it on the coffee table, right next to Quinn’s glass of water; The familiar voice of Ms. Frizzle soothing the beating of her chest now that she’s returned downstairs.  


“So, that’s where you ran off to weirdo?” Quinn smiles at her. And Sammie shrugs her shoulders in return. With that faint smile the nightmare is all but gone. The feral dog with the yellow eyes buried within the confines of her memory. Her feet are itching now to leave the house, and to get a taste of the clear air now that the rain has finally stopped. “What are you doing still watching Magic School Bus with me, it isn’t raining…go outside and play like a normal person.”  


Samantha smiles from the floor before biting her lip with a small frown. She looks up from the floor with small hazel eyes and locks them on her sisters. “I still wish you could come outside with me – if your arm wasn’t broken.”  


“Well…next time you see Santana outside you can kick her for me. It’s her fault anyway.” Samantha nods. But she doesn’t tell Quinn that she would never dare to kick Santana Lopez. That was almost like a death wish at Lima Elementary – no matter that she was one of Quinn’s best friends. It never bode well to cross the brunette – even if she was a familiar face.  


“Stop hanging around me…go outside. Take Tannie with you, I bet you can even bring her car if Mom says so. She’s in a good mood today.”  


And with that reassurance Samantha Fabray rises off of the floor again and collects Tannie Barbie into her small hand before running into the kitchen and asking her mother Judith if it’s really alright to bring along her brand new birthday present to play with outside. She’s surprised that Quinn is right when her mother says yes – even though she really shouldn’t be – because Quinn is always right. And as she grabs all of her things and zips up her small Parka she looks back again to see Quinn resting on the couch. The small bottle of Advil is popped open, and Sammie feels bad knowing her sister is in so much pain. She may just kick Santana Lopez after all if she sees her outside. And on a whim – she crosses the living room, smiling at the sound her wellies make as her feet squish inside of them. And when Quinn looks up from the TV curiously Sammie falls down to the sofa to wrap her up in a quick hug – making sure to kiss her softly against the cheek for good measure. Quinn doesn’t flinch away or push her off – and when Sammie rises back up off of the couch with a cheesy grin, Quinn smiles back. And with a new lightness to her step she races to the door – Tannie Barbie and her Porsche 911 Cabriolet clutched between her pale fingers.  


If Quinn had known of the day’s outcome, perhaps she would have held on a little tighter – Perhaps she would have never let her go in the first place. But as the older blonde watches her sister close the door behind her she closes her eyes to sleep as the tablet of Advil begins to take effect. A small smile falling from her lips on a deep exhale.  


The door shuts with a resounding click as a small blonde runs out onto the sidewalk.  


And from that singular moment…Quinn Fabray never saw her sister alive again.

  


* * *

The clouds fall over the horizon with a deep foreboding. And here Samantha was, still trailing her feet along the curb in an attempt to regain her balance. It was with a particularly strong gust that her foot slipped, and Tannie Barbie fell from her wavering hand into the strong stream of water at the end of the curb. Leading her lithe plastic form down, down, down –to the clogged gutter at the intersection of Laurence Boulevard and Eisenhower.  


“Tannie!” She yelled into the air, her words having no affect on the disappearing Barbie doll.  


She ran after it quickly, her wellies sliding along the wet concrete. And she watched with sorrowful eyes as the gutter pulled Tannie in limb by limb. Her plastic body disappearing beneath the water and the drain as the seconds ticked by. Samantha ran for it, sure that she would lose it to the sewage forever, and she ran forward skidding to a stop and losing her balance – falling to the concrete just as she reached the gutter – she couldn’t hold back the tears that were creeping up behind her eyelids.  


“No! Come back Tannie!” Her small voice cracked with despair as she crawled over and peered down into the dark drain. And what she smelled stilled her tears. There was no Chanel No. 5 to cover the stench this time around – and as the smell of rot crept up from the gutter she had the sudden urge to run. Tannie Barbie pushed to the depths of her mind, as a familiar fear settled into her small bones. She wished that Quinn were here now. If only Quinn were here.  


And as her body stilled and her eyes caught her murky reflection in the dank and rotting water a familiar scene played across her vision, and as the water drained loudly into the smelly abyss, something changed –  


Her gasp was quiet in retrospect. Never having been heard over the steady drum of cascading water into the drain. But for Samantha Fabray – it was the expelling of every breath she held within her tiny lungs – the fear making her recoil with every ounce of her being as she stared into familiar yellow eyes – peering at her from beneath the waters depths. _She’s sure she’s seen these eyes before – they bring up memories of dogs from Goosebumps and Werewolves underneath her bed_. And she wants to run. She can feel her muscles moving beneath her paralysis. And before she can make headway – a pleasant voice echoes out to her from where those eyes stay transfixed on her own.  


“Hello Samantha.”  


Samantha stopped – she wasn’t sure if what she was seeing was real. It looked real and talked real. And if she were older maybe she wouldn’t begin to believe what she was seeing. But she was seven and a half. And what she was witnessing on this cold and rainy Lima morning was anything but ordinary.  


There was a clown in the gutter. He was staring up at her with those yellow eyes. But they weren’t quite so terrifying now that she could see clearly. _But perhaps they were…and maybe she should run_. But he was smiling up at her now with white teeth and painted lips. His red hair was puffy and red on the sides of his head – and perhaps she should have been scared. But Samantha wasn’t afraid of clowns – and she couldn’t find it in her to turn away. She smiled back at the clown’s face, and she realized that he held different colored balloons in one of his hands; they floated from his palm as if carried on a breeze.  


_But there shouldn’t be a breeze coming from the gutter –  
_

In his other hand, he held Tannie Barbie.  


“Would you like Tannie back Samantha?”  


Samantha smiled down at the clown with her missing tooth smile. She couldn’t help herself—she thought Tannie would be lost forever. But seeing her again, now – in the clowns waiting palm. She couldn’t help but smile, as he looked up and smiled in return. “Yes, please.”  


“Oh – and _wonderful_ manners I see! Would you like a balloon Samantha?”  


Samantha nodded quickly before shaking her head tepidly. She wasn’t supposed to take things from strangers. And just as she was about to reach her hand out to grab one, she retracted it back to her side quickly. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”  


She could hear the clown’s laugh – and she watched, as his smile grew unnaturally wide. She watched him from her perch along the sidewalk – her eyes following his yellow ones beneath the drain.  


“Well then, allow me to introduce myself! My name is Bob Gray, but everyone around here calls me Pennywise The Clown. And you are Samantha Fabray. Samantha, meet Pennywise, Pennywise meet Samantha. And now…we are not strangers, we’re almost friends! Isn’t that so-ooo?”  


Samantha smiled as she watched the balloons in his hands bob and sway. “I guess you’re right Mr. Pennywise…how—how did you get stuck down there in the gutter anyway?”  


Samantha could feel her fingers twitching at her sides to reach again for another balloon and stopped herself. She watched as Pennywise the clown’s lips pulled up into a bright laugh. “Storm just blew our whole circus away. The acrobats, and animals…we have elephants you know.”  
“I love elephants.” Samantha breathed. And Pennywise chuckled.  


“We have a whole circus down here. Can you smell it? It’s so much fun down here Samantha. Can you smell the circus?”  


Samantha leaned in closer now, her small freckled nose almost touching the murky water-runoff that spilled into the drain. And she could smell it. She could smell the hay and the kettle-corn from the concession stands, she could smell the peanuts and the sunflower seeds roasting too. She could even smell the animals around the ring, and yet…beneath all of that she could smell something else too. That same stench, beneath her mother’s Chanel No. 5; it was fainter than she recalled, but beneath the popcorn and the hotdogs she could smell the foul tang of putridity and dissolution. The rotting of sodden leaves and decomposition – and something else entirely; there was something else rotting beneath all of that decay – and it stilled her body as she looked into the yellow eyes of Pennywise The Clown.  


“Sure I can…” Sammie’s voice had fallen to a whisper as she realized that there was something else down there. The circus smells were still swirling around her like a fluffy haze.  


“Would you like Tannie, Samantha?” Sammie nodded. He rose up slowly and for the first time Sammie could see his polyester suit. It was orange and white with giant floppy orange buttons down the center. He had a bright blue flower pressed against his chest, and he smiled up at Samantha as he held out a balloon-clad hand.  


“And a balloon? … I’ve got a pink one just for you. That’s your favorite color isn’t Samantha?” He smiled as he extended his hand out even further.  


Sammie could see the balloons beginning to crest at the surface of the drain. She nodded her head eagerly, as she slowly brought her twitching fingers out from where they rested at her side to reach for a pink balloon.  


“Do they float like normal balloons?”  


“Do they float? … Of course! All balloons down here float Samantha…”  


And with a new conviction Sammie smiled as she reached down the rest of the distance to finally grasp the pink balloon.  


Her arm reached to finally break the murky water.  


The clown snatched her outstretched hand.  


And Samantha recoiled as she watched the clown’s face change before her wide hazel eyes.  


And what she saw made the dog from her parent’s bedroom seem like a fairytale. One to join the ranks of Beauty and the Beast, and The Little Mermaid; what she looked down into now was enough to cause the expelling of her bladder, all over her new floral dress – running beneath her wellies along the concrete. She froze in her shock as every ounce of seven-year-old sanity was wiped from her fledgling brain.  


“ _They float_.” It chanted from the depths of the drain. It’s voice now clotted and hollow with grime and sludge. Samantha tried to recoil back onto the pavement. Her wellies slipping and sliding in the fresh urine that was slicking to her legs and to the pavement beneath her feet, not granting her purchase; she could feel it’s breath tickling her cheek and she couldn’t stop the tears from peeking over her cheeks as the rotting stench of decaying flesh burned through her nose and mouth. She groaned as a fresh wave of force pulled her down into the gutter, and she shrieked into gurgling bubbling murky water as she felt that same force crushing her captured fingers – breaking them into shattering remains.  


“ _They float – we all float down here Samantha, and when you join us. You’ll float too…_ ” It was growling now, the voice.  


And through her wailing shrieks and tears Samantha Fabray could see the fangs that had taken place of perfectly whitened teeth – and the gleaming yellow pupils that had widened in murderous intent. Its warped face was pulling her in, and its clawed hands were not letting go. She screamed and screamed as her face was submerged under the water. And from anywhere on the street – from the suddenly turning heads of the LIMA TOWNSHIP sandbaggers: Erin Scholes, Redding Larrity, and Frankie and Ulysses Laramie, all they witnessed was a little girl in a ladybug poncho and polka dot galoshes screaming into a clogged and murky drain; her golden hair falling wildly around her face and wetting into the running water as her screams became muffled by the bubbles of water submerging her.  


“ _Everything down here floats Samantha…even you_.” And with a cackling voice and sharpened teeth Samantha Fabray cried as she felt the crunch of her shattered fingers. And as her legs struggled behind her on the ground there was a terrible feeling of flesh being ripped away, and the gurgling of free-flowing blood, as she could feel those fingers no longer. And as her small hazel eyes glassed over the world turned black. And with the feel of sharpened teeth sinking somewhere on the side of her head, Samantha Fabray knew now more.  


Eric Scholes was the first to arrive. He pulled the already cold body from the reddening depths of the murky water along the curb. He lost his stomach when he flipped her small body over to see the torn away remains of a fleshy shoulder. The small arm gone down into the gutters depths; he hadn’t even noticed the missing ear, but as he cradled the small body of Samantha Fabray in his arms he yelled out into the empty street of Laurence Boulevard for help as the rain started to pour. And with blood on his hands he looked down into the glassy eyes of seven and a half year old Samantha Ivy Fabray. And he wept.


	2. A Storm Is Brewing In Lima: (2018)

# PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN

## CHAPTER 2:

### A STORM IS BREWING IN LIMA (2018)

 

This is the worst storm that Lima, Ohio has seen since the fall of ’93. And if anyone alive on that fateful day had witnessed when Samantha Fabray was found, one arm ripped off and an ear missing – then they surely would never forget it. By the end of the fall and winter season fifteen more children in Allen County had gone missing. By the summer of ’94 all of ten were found. Their bodies decayed and…bitten, torn – teeth marks rotting around the wounds in putrid flesh – some of them were missing limbs, others heads. And out of all of the children that eventually turned up. None had had a more lasting affect than Samantha’s. A beautiful young girl – gorgeous hazel eyes, and an entire life ahead of her – she was buried in Oak Park Cemetery, right next to her grandmother Lillian. 

But things like that were not spoken of in Lima, Ohio. Police Chief Gaultier was young and calculating. He did not connect the dots of the missing children. He did not read Samantha Fabray’s curious obituary – he did not interrogate the family. Because that was twenty-five years ago – and he has new problems to face today; a two-year old boy by the name of Devon Sawyer went missing last night. He was taking a bath, and when his mother Pam opened the door after leaving for a few minutes to grab more baby shampoo – he was gone – a small trail of blood leading to the vent under the sink, the only marker of a lost child.

Two weeks ago Mia Wittier, a thirteen year old straight A student at Lorraine Middle School disappeared after swim practice at the high school. Her body was found this morning. She was missing a foot and a chunk of flesh out of her abdomen. She was still wearing her bathing suit.

And if you had asked Chief Mark Gaultier if he had thought to read the old obituaries he would have said no. Because Lima is a good town, with good people – and children don’t just turn up missing. And yet, here he was again. Facing a storm the likes of which Lima has never seen before, and an overflowing creek that needs attending. And sitting on his old desk are the files of two missing children, one dead. And it looks like Lima, just got a whole lot more complicated than he had wished.

* * *

“It was supposed to be funny, w-we didn’t think…”

Robert Dandridge was chewing on his bottom lip, his braces flashing under the fluorescent lights of the interrogation room. Lieutenants Monroe and Wells stared at him from the opposite end of the long table. For once pitying the life of a seventeen year old. It was Monroe who spoke up first, his hair unkempt as he brought a hand to his eyebrow. It was late, and he was itching to get home to his girlfriend after a stressful night – but it didn’t look like any of them were going to be having a happy ending as of late.

“Alright alright, take it from the top. What happened last night, the night of Thursday, October 23rd at approximately 11:22pm.” Jerry Monroe’s tone was calculating and warm.

He knew the kid would be petrified. He was a dirty snake, and a prick. He wouldn’t hold out long – all he needed was a false sense of security and he was sure to crack under the pressure. Wells walked over and handed him a cup of water, he looked up at her nervously and Monroe could have gagged at the fear stretched all across his pimpled face. It was disgusting.

“Me and some of the boys…”

“Which boys?” Lara Wells was the exact opposite of warm. And her voice pierced the closed room sharply as her gaze rounded on the quivering teenager.

“M-Me, Bubba James, Newt Furnish, Louie Towns…and Mitchell Green,” Robert Dandridge paused to take a sip of water before he stilled his nerves. “We just went out drivin’ looking for something to do because we were bored. We saw Freddie Kilger when we were leaving the gas station, h-he’s a nerdy kid. We thought we’d have some fun and spook him a bit. We just played chicken with him in the car, Mitch was driving – he looked scared but we weren’t gonna hurt him or nothing. We ended up cornering him on Rocketeer Bridge; he didn’t have anywhere to go. And Mitch thought it’d be fun to scare him some, so we got out of the car. And I stayed farther back and before I knew it him and Newt were pushing him around and slapping him a few times. Mitch got carried away and picked him up, him and Newt and Bubba flipped him upside down to hang him from the railing to spook him a little. I didn’t see nothing cause I knew it was getting carried away. But – all of a sudden Mitch turned around and his eyes were…they were… _weird_. And he shook his head, and when he did he was smiling. And at that point he was the only one still holding Freddie’s ankles – he looked directly at me again, and as his smile turned up he just let go…and that’s when I ran.”

“Are you aware of the story you’ve just told us Robert? You’re saying that you were an accessory and a witness to a case of first-degree murder with malicious intent. That’s a big felony, kid…Freddie Kilger died that night, the water was shallow, he hit the rocks at the bank of the St. Evan Creek. Can you explain what happened after Mitchel, Bubba and Newt dropped him? – his hands were missing, and someone bit off his nose. That can’t be the end of your story…” Monroe was tired, and he had a feeling that Robert Dandridge was done for the night, but he had to follow through and make sure before he filed the report with Wells. 

“I told you I ran away…a minute or so later I saw Mitch’s car speeding off of Rocketeer bridge toward the main street. But it was only a minute later. There wouldn’t have been time to find Freddie at the bottom of the creek and then speed away. I don’t think he would have done…that. It was an accident. But I did see something weird as I ran away.” Wells inched in closer, and Monroe clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth patiently.

“What did you see Robert?”

“A-A…you’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“If you tell us the truth, you’re gonna make this easier for yourself in the long run."

Monroe watched the kid’s eyes well up with pent up tears. He really didn’t want to see this. He exhaled audibly while he waited.

“A-Clown…there was a clown. In an orange and white suit, with orange buttons. He was standing at the other end of the bridge when I turned around. He had Freddie’s body in his arms, and Freddie looked beat up but he wasn’t dead yet I don’t think. And he – The Clown was…smiling at me. He looked…fucking evil. _So fucking evil_.”

Monroe watched Wells scrunch her eyebrows. He just shook his head tiredly before shutting his file. He stood up quickly, grimacing at the crying pimple-faced teenager sitting across from him at the other end of the table. And as Wells turned to pull him up and cuff him – he followed them out of the door. Happy to finally be able to get home – despite the images of evil clowns that he just couldn’t shake from his head.

* * *

The trial lasted three months. By the end of it seven more children had gone missing all between the ages of two and fifteen. Mitchell Greene, Bubba James, and Newt Furnish were tried and convicted of first-degree murder – they were all tried as adults. Louis Towns and Robert Dandridge were charged as accessories to murder with a three-year felony charge in federal prison. Jerry Monroe noticed that the clown was never brought up again during the trial…it was as if…Robert Dandridge had never seen or said… _a thing_.


	3. 12 Phone Calls: (2018)

# PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN

##  CHAPTER 3:

 

### 12 PHONE CALLS (2018)

**_Artie Abrams Takes A Call_ **

* * *

Lindsay Gold-Abrams sits at her kitchen counter, holding on to a pair of glasses that she doesn't necessarily need. Her voice is weak as she looks out of the dining room window at a front lawn that needs tendering – and her eyes are filled to the brim with an emptiness and a dread that she would wish on no other living soul.

She should have _realized_.

She should have _known_.

She should have changed things; perhaps if she had been more attentive, Arthur Reed Abrams would still be here. His glasses are light in her hands and as she turns her gaze to the corner of the living room she lets her eyes linger on his old wheelchair. It sits empty and discarded amongst the other furniture – but Lindsay never had the heart to give it away. She sits alone cradling his glasses, wishing that her mind could stop replaying that night almost four months ago—over and over again like a broken Bob Dylan vinyl record.

It was still warm in St. Louis, and with the end of the summer creeping up she was excited for the new round up of fall television. It had been on a night like this – with her feet propped up on the sofa, that she realized that Artie was staring transfixed at the Television screen – his blue eyes staring and wide – focused intently on the gorgeous blonde that was currently taking residence across their box. She was beautiful, and Lindsay blinked her eyelids once, twice as she took in the pale skin and the hazel eyes reflecting back at her through the screen. She recognized that face – in fact she had seen it many times over – perhaps if she were more of a gossip it would hold more purchase within her memory. However – the blonde isn't the one that gives her pause. It's her husband Artie, seated in his chair, watching a dramatic scene unfold with the look of dread splayed across his soft features.

"Sweetie…? What's the matter?" Lindsay's voice is questioning and hollow, and she watches as Artie shakes his head softly from side to side, clutching tightly onto the wheels of his chair as he snaps his gaze across the living room to meet her eyes.

"Nothing, I just – I recognized her. Quinn Fabray…" Lindsay remembers the name now and the string of men that have been rumored to have romanced her. She remembers reading about her in magazines like People and Vogue. Her face is stunning – it's no wonder her husband is rendered speechless.

"She's really pretty."

"I told you about her once. Remember? She's one of my old friends from Ohio. We used to be friends once, quite a long time ago now."

Lindsay doesn't immediately recall the blonde from Artie's childhood stories – but in all honesty – Artie was never one to particularly indulge in tales from his childhood during all of the time that she's known him. But now she can feel something click, and before she can understand why, her eyes are swiveling around carefully to gaze at a small-framed photograph sitting atop one of the wooden pieces of furniture by the door.

It's old and worn beneath the glass – but she's seen it many times before. A picture of thirteen children – all of varying sizes and with varying grins. They pose for the camera as if it's a duty rather than a past time. And she recognizes Artie in the back of the group – he wasn't paralyzed then, his legs strong and tall in his overalls. And center frame, in the middle of the entire gang – stands the girl they've just seen on television. She's remarkably beautiful for a ten- year old, even then. And she's one of the only ones who doesn't smile in the photo. Lindsay notices however that her gaze is not focused on the camera, but rather on a short little brunette who stands a few people away.

"So…that's Quinn Fabray? She was even pretty then. People like her make me jealous. Really honey, beauty like that isn't _natural_." Lindsay turns back to the television to watch the blonde on the small screen. She's direct in her talents, and Lindsay can already tell that there's hardness behind those hazel eyes – much like there is behind her Artie's as well.

And it is in this moment that Lindsay should have stopped.

This is the moment when _everything_ changed.

Artie stopped sleeping. It was the nightmares that came first. His screams in the middle of the night were enough to alarm her. He began to lose weight. By the next month Artie was only clocking in at 130.5 lbs. for his 5'7" slender build. It wasn't terrible no…but it wasn't _natural_.

Lindsay Gold met Arthur Abrams during her sophomore year of college at Mizzou. He was in a wheelchair – the president of the robotics team – and she met him at a rally. It wasn't the wheelchair that bothered her. It had always been his small blue eyes that brought her in. And when they graduated in 2006 and packed their bags, St. Louis worked. Artie had no dreams to return to Ohio, and Lindsay's family was from Missouri. And so it was here that they settled down. And at thirty-five, children has never been a possibility for them. Anatomically Artie could still function, but that didn't mean that his gametes would.

Impotence. Probably since puberty they said.

She remembers crying for weeks.

It wasn't his _fault_ –

But now she wonders. She wonders if she's always been destined to live a life alone? And as she stares at the red drapes hanging from the windows in the living room, the day that her entire life changed rings loudly against her eardrums.

It all began with a phone call.

"Who was that Artie?" her voice is light as she cuts up raw carrots for their dinner. She doesn't notice his pallor – or the way that he stares off into space as if he no longer has the strength for answers.

"Matthew Rutherford."

"Oh! Isn't he one of your old friends from Lima?" She doesn't look up or particularly notice if Artie turns to give her an answer. She doesn't even notice that Artie's left the telephone on the floor beeping off of the hook.

"I'm going to go take a bath…"

"Alright sweetie, dinner will be waiting when you're finished."

And little did Lindsay Gold-Abrams know. With her slightly less than overweight frame and her wide hips. Her light grey eyes and her messy bun – that that would be the last time she would see her Artie alive.

_If only things could have been different she said_.

_If only…_

She turned back to her carrots. Her heart beating just a little bit faster with no real inclination as to why. Artie had always been rather quiet, and although he had become a bit more closed off – that shouldn't have changed things really. It takes ten minutes for Lindsay to realize that her hands are shaking. The knife wobbles between her fingers and she almost slices open her thumb. She decides to stop her chopping. Letting a hand run through her hair sloppily to still her less than welcome nerves. She looks at the digital clock above the microwave. It reads 7:14pm, and she wonders where all the time could have gone. Because she's been sat here chopping carrots for almost forty-five minutes and she hasn't even realized it. She laughs hollowly at her blunder – and she wonders now – what's taking Artie so long in the bathtub?

_Artie?_

She follows the curve of the walls of their small home – letting her socked feet walk down the carpeted hallway to their master bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and she can hear the monotonous Plink of a faulty drain.

_Artie?_

She raps lightly on the door. _Plink ,Plink, Plink_.

_Artie?_

She laughs again – she's sure he must have just fallen asleep in the bathtub. But that doesn't stop her heart from palpitating wildly against her ribcage. Or her feet to move backwards – headed for the key hook by the entry to the garage. She isn't sure how much time has passed. But she finds the spare key marked MASTER BEDROOM 1 and she removes it from its hook. Her feet following a familiar path back to their bedroom. She feels like she may just faint, and she raps her fisted hand once more against the locked wooden door.

_Artie?_

_Artie?_

_Plink, plink, plink…_

"You aren't masturbating in there are you? Because if so, this isn't funny Arthur, dinner is waiting…" And as the words escape her drying lips she already knows the falsities within them. Artie never closes the bathroom door during a bath. And he never blatantly ignores her either. With trembling hands she grips the doorknob and inserts the brass key – twisting it against the locking cogs. And when the door falls open, she can see the fluorescent light of the bathroom CFL's overhead. They flicker dimly against the tile.

_Artie?_

_Arthur?_

And as the hinges turn with her pressure, see sees a pale faintly hairy leg dangling over the lip of the tub; a steady trickle of water falling from a paralyzed toe. And as her grey eyes move up she sees the first trails of his mutilations. Deep cuts into his thighs – they are skinny now and atrophied from disuse – and Lindsay knows he's always been ashamed of them. But seeing them now, frail and sliced, tendons showing through – she wants to pass out. There is blood everywhere. She can see it swirling in his still warm water. And dripping down his legs in the bathtub. His wheelchair sits by the other end, left to witness the entire event.

And as Lindsay Gold- Abram's eyes finally reach up into the dead, cold blue ones of her husband Artie, she loses all of the breath in her lungs as she's careened headfirst into a terror she's never known.

_Plink_

_Plink_

_Plink_

The steady taunting of the dripping tub faucet— and above it in crude finger-art written in crimson, is the mark of despair:

" **IT'S COMING** "

And as Lindsay's chilling grey eyes finally settle on the words above Artie's dripping hair. She lets the terror come. And she screams. Because…

She could have stopped this.

She could have saved him.

But of course…she's much too late for Arthur Reed Abrams.

 

**_Santana Lopez Takes A Cigar_ **

* * *

Santana was sure that she was stronger than she seemed. At least that's what she believed until the alcohol and sickness started to kick in.

A phone call to Matt Rutherford would do that to someone though. Especially when you forget that he even existed until that phone call an hour ago. Really, you haven't even thought about Matthew Rutherford in fucking years.

_Has it really been that long?_ …

Yes.

It has.

The cigar rolling between her puckered lips is sweet tasting on her tongue. She can feel the embers burning into heady smoke around her blistering head. And she prays – she prays for peace. She keeps these puppies locked up for damn near necessary situations. She received this particular case of Gurkha: Black Dragon's almost five years ago when her record label went national. They're a _fucking_ guap, and with each one that she smokes, Santana can feel a considerable chunk of her pocket dwindling away into the effervescent smoke. The box was full before Matt Rutherford called. Now she's two down and almost three grand short.

And as the whiskey swirls in a clear tumbler with ice, and her body starts shaking around her bones – she kind of wishes that she never answered her goddamn phone in the first place. It's way too hot in the overlarge office, and so she closes the blinds with a small remote – making sure to concentrate extra hard on the task – she almost drops it from how violently her fingers shake against the clicker. One phone call and she knows that things are going to change whether she wants them to or not. Just her motherfucking luck…shit. She's sure she's this close to passing out – and right now – that notion is more than welcome.

_Matt Rutherford_.

That's a name for the record books.

_God_ , she moved away from Lima when she was damn near twelve years old. Family packed up the Sedan and headed for San Antonio. And now, hearing that name after twenty? Twenty-five years? A realization strikes as the cogs turn in her muddled head – and she isn't at all content with all that's being dug up from the darkness.

"Santana Lopez?" His voice was calm and quiet over the telephone line at least an hour ago when she talked to him. And she wonders now – as her fingers nurse a Whiskey sour – how he even got her digits. She's a big shot record executive now, handling some of the biggest names in show business, and not just anyone gets her goddamn personal number.

"Who's speaking? Make it quick, I don't have all damn day –"

"It's Matt Rutherford…from Lima." And right there. That's when the entire world changes. And as soon as she recognizes that voice – she knows. It's almost as if Lima's calling to her now, and her heart beats within her chest to a familiar terrorized rhythm. The image burns darkened retinas when she closes her eyes to the impression of a skinny dark toned boy with a wide smile and dark eyelashes. His posture, lean and calm – an easy quiet to his young demeanor. And she can remember punching the crap out of him on more than one occasion in an abandoned field behind a rickety fort –her fists have done other damage since. But at present she can feel her fingers skating over the scars that are still there. Almost recalling the pain of a time long, long forgotten.

" _Matt motherfucking Rutherford?_ "

"It's back. Do you remember?" And Santana grimaces at the burning in her chest at the mention of it. A promise made almost exactly twenty-five years ago when she was ten going on eleven. And whether or not all the pieces are firmly fitting together she knows that she has no other options and she nods her head. Forgetting momentarily that Matt can't hear her motions, and so she takes a shuddering breath to still her nerves.

"Some…I remember some."

"Can you come?"

"Yes…"

As she had hung up the line she had no other way to turn off the time-ticker that was her brain. And all of the memories of that summer came flooding back. Quinn, Rachel, Noah… Brittany. And as her thoughts shift to the blue-eyed blonde from her childhood, she wonders how she could have ever forgotten her – forgotten all of them. It's both terrifying and sickening – because as the fear settles in – she knows, that this promise…they had all hoped – that it would never have to come to fruition.

She needs a drink.

She needs more than one.

It's a simple phone call to her assistant Amanda Peters, and she's staring at a boarding pass – First Class – On Delta Airlines. A one- way ticket to Dayton, OH with a town car pick-up via National. She hasn't been to Lima since she moved away when she was twelve. And a lot has changed in her life – and simultaneously a lot hasn't.

It takes blood, sweat, and tears to make it in Los Angeles – and for Santana Lopez, those sacrifices came easily. She has a bitch complex and she knows it. Her fists always come first in a conversation, and after spending years and years wondering why she's always felt so alone… she's realized, it's because she's unlikeable. Add in the fact that she's a closeted femme-lover and you've got a serious problem. Four years at The University of Arizona didn't change any of that. Perhaps Santana always hoped that somehow she'd find all of her answers after a sling of one-night stands with girls she couldn't remember the next morning. She assumed that by joining Delta Gamma pledge class of '03 she could find herself.

Make friends.

Become a better, smarter, kinder person after so many years of bitterness.

And all it got her was a list of connections to some of the biggest names in the industry, and a drinking problem. Come to find out that most of them were just as lonely as she was – fan-fucking-tastic.

It didn't solve anything.

By the time she was twenty-six, she was spear heading a small independent recording label called BIG FISH RECORDS with one artist, Lorne Thomas. And by the time she was twenty-seven – that artist had gone on to win two Grammy's and a BRIT award. And now at thirty-five, with no less than eighty recording artists under her slim belt – she's proud to call herself the VP of that small record company that could. She made it _because_ she's a bitch. And while her tumblers are always full, and her scotch always ripe – it doesn't dull the sting of coming home to the most gorgeous view anyone's ever seen atop the Hollywood Hills, and having absolutely no one to share it with. Not even the sex can dull the ache. It's a wonder she's made it this long. She hasn't been happy in a long time.

And as she sits at her wide desk, and stares out at a gray Los Angeles sky overhead, she can't stop the ringing in her ears. The collection of memories she thought she left behind in Lima. With each blink of her dark eyes a new image pops up out of the fray – reeling her in to the dark, dank sewers of her childhood. She can almost smell the decay – and it makes her stomach coil, and her chest tighten. She doesn't want to go back to whatever horror she's tried to forget. And with another drink of her whiskey she can see all of their faces.

Finnocence Hudson with his goofy grin and his soft features – not yet slimmed out, the baby fat around his innocent middle. The youth behind his eyes.

Weezy Jones. And now that she thinks about it – she's heard Mercedes name in conversation before – why she never connected the dots she doesn't know. But she can hear her voice in the back of her mind taunting her as she sucks on a piece of ice between her teeth.

Kurt Hummel – that name sure does ring a bell. Talk about flamboyant. She wonders what's become of him in all the years that have passed. Would any of these people even remember _her_? Would they even fucking _care_?

Puckerman. She would rather not re-build those bridges if she could help it.

The Midget. God, Rachel motherfucking Berry. A dwarf in Streisand shoes with an annoyance level unrivalled. Berry was talented – she was damn talented. And if Santana had remembered her when she was fashioning BIG FISH, she would have signed her on the spot. Because she's a pro at finding talent. But Berry – she was the one who was supposed to make it out of that proverbial hell hole and do something better with her future. Santana sincerely wishes that that's exactly what happened for her.

The Chang's. She never really had the energy to differentiate them. One danced, the other stuttered – but the fact that they shared in their terror and in their resilience – she can respect that.

Sam Evans – another one she can't place. She hopes he made it out too. No one deserves to stay locked in Lima. _No one_.

Q. This is where she pauses. Quinn Fabray was her best friend until she moved away. And it's been disheartening for Santana to know that she hasn't thought about any of these people since her feet stepped upon San Antonio soil, and with every passing year – the memories have grown foggier and fogger – they've slipped through her fingers like rolling water. And now that she remembers – that she sees it vividly across her eyelids. She isn't exactly sure what's made her forget. Because Quinn Fabray was their everything. Quinn Fabray gave them a reason to fight. And with that vision comes…Samantha Fabray. And now Santana knows that she's going to be sick. She can hear the ringing in her ears – and her heart still holds the fear that she believed she'd long since discarded. The film plays brokenly as her fingers clench the glass. The Lima Townhouse – the way they chased her, nose-broken – eyes wild with murderous intent. They say that children aren't capable of evil. But Santana knows better – she remembers better.

" _Come back here you dyke! We're gonna get you, you little shit! Nobody punches David Karofsky in the face and lives to tell about it…especially sluts like you!"_

_"Come here dyke!"_

_"We're gonna find you…_ "

And there's a name that makes her spine tingle and her lips turn down in a grimace. David Karofsky. She doesn't particularly care what's happened to him and his cronies, whatever their names were. But they were crazy – and they don't deserve her memories. In fact they deserve their own little pitfalls of hell for their transgressions. Hell they were all kids…but Karofsky. That little shit was fucking evil. He was possessed.

She refills her cup – sending a few emails out to her assistant. She doesn't feel like dealing with the backlash of her impending absence. She'll let Amanda handle that shit storm when it comes. Instead she focuses on the dimming skyline, her dark eyes falling to her glass, as marble blue ones swim in front of her fuzzy vision. And blonde hair is all she sees behind her eyelids as the last member of their unguided band of misfits swims to the surface. Santana can almost feel her heart lurch – and she knows, when she left Lima behind, she left her heart along with it.

_Brittany Pierce_.

And with a resounding clearing of her throat, she scrolls to Matt Rutherford's name on her caller ID and pales –He had told her that Artie didn't make it. And now as it registers. The quiet boy in the back with the wire-rimmed glasses and the flipper –like feet. He could swim like a fish – at least before his accident in …in…Santana would rather not think about that. Instead she realizes that Artie is no longer with them. And she somehow feels that in a way – he's the lucky one in their group. He made it out – and there's no coming back. There's no more blood curdling nightmares in the night, or visions of orange buttons descending on him from behind a closed door. No fear of being swallowed hole by a faulty drain, no blood-chilling childhood promises left to keep. She's almost envious – instead all she can feel is sadness. Because _what has she gotten herself into_?

And as Santana packs up her briefcase and buzzes down to the ground level for her driver, she's sure that she's making one of the biggest mistakes of her life. And as she drives to LAX, and boards a flight straight for Dayton, Ohio – she's sure that in more ways than one – the haunting will come back.

And this time it will be real.

This time she won't be able to forget.

 

**_Noah Puckerman Takes A Drink_ **

* * *

If you had been looking for the second string Quarterback for the Washington Redskins on a typical off-season Thursday night, you'd most likely find him off of Highway 267 a little ways west of Ashburn, Virginia. There's a little secluded bar off of the main drag, with a big gravel parking lot and a small town country feel. Montana's is known for it's on tap and it's pool. And although it's a small local spot, Noah Puckerman loves it here. He's a religious customer, and his seat is reserved for him every Thursday unless he's on an away game. Today is no different.

Except…

LaSalle glances at the large clock in the corner of the bar – it reads 8:05pm. And when he glances at the door he furrows his eyebrows. Puckerman is always on time for his weekly brew with the guys. And just before he's about to question his sanity, he sees the tall athletic figure of Noah Puckerman, number 5 for the Washington Redskins walking up to the bar from the swinging main doors. He's got on cowboy boots and jeans with an eagle belt buckle and a white t-shirt with a leather jacket. If it weren't for his eyes – well perhaps everything would have been alright.

But as he walks up to his usual bar stool and takes a seat. He leans in close with his eyes raised up slowly, and Vincent Redford LaSalle almost wants to back away. Because those eyes aren't _natural_ – No, sir. But he squares his shoulders instead, patting down a napkin and a Montana's coaster, letting his movements mask his unwelcome uncertainty.

"What'll it be tonight skins?" LaSalle makes sure to keep his tone light and playful. He's served Noah Puckerman for god knows how long he's been suffering as a second string QB for the Redskins…that's almost five years now. And he'd like to think that the two of them have at least formed some type of camaraderie. Puckerman laughs, and LaSalle gets that hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach again when he hears the way it rattles hollowly in the air between them.

"Make it Jack today Vince. The whole bottle, hold the rocks."

"Shit Puck, that's a whole damn lot of whiskey. Not sure that's a good idea."

Puck laughs again and LaSalle flinches – there's a finality to the man's tone and Vincent just can't tell him no. He grabs a new bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar room and brings it out, pouring it into a large pilsner glass. His eyes following the sway of amber liquid as it sloshes back and forth against the glass.

"You sure you don't want a tonic? Rocks? Sour? Coke? This is a lot of straight Whiskey, even for our regular drunks." Puck looks up at Vincent slowly and takes a hard gulp before he runs a hand through his black hair. It's short but not too short. The edges are just now growing out, and the tufts of it that he keeps gelled at the top, curl around his forehead as he pulls his hand back suddenly, studying his palm against the counter.

"Something bothering you today kid? Tough practice this week, you guys are having a pretty solid season though, lots of potential—"

"I used to have a Mohawk, y'know that Vince?" Vincent shakes his head back and forth as he watches the young kid – well if you call mid-thirties young – stare at his hand. It's a tad-off putting but Vincent can't exactly place why, instead he tears his eyes away from Noah Puckerman, his old green eyes landing on a couple of blonde girls over by the pool tables. They're all legs and boobs, and he's sure that Noah's gonna be in one tonight by the way those women are staring him down from across the room. He would laugh on a normal Thursday – but somehow today feels different.

"No sir, I didn't. Is there a reason you're telling me kid?"

"It was a long time ago LaSalle. Hell, it was all such a long fucking time ago. If I tell you something…you won't think I'm crazy will you?" Vincent shakes his head even though he's sure that that's exactly what he's thinking. Maybe Puck just took one too many sacks this week during practice.

"I used to be a real shit-wipe when I was a kid. Burning trashcans, shoplifting. Gluing substitute's asses to their desks. I don't know how my parents put up with me. The only real friends I had before…that summer. Were Q, Santana Lopez and Finn Hudson. And you know what's so funny about that shit, Vince?" Vincent shakes his head yet again. "I haven't even thought about them since I left Lima. I haven't even remembered them until tonight. Who does that? I know I've been concussed before and shit, but _fuck_ , it's like I have motherfucking amnesia dude. Those were my best friends, before we all left. I don't even know what happened to any of them."

"Sounds like a fun childhood if you ask me." Puck shakes his head and Vincent can see his eyes close and his spine shudder before he finishes off the Pilsner of Jack in one gulp. Puckerman motions for him to refill it before his eyes open again, and LaSalle knows. That coiling motion in the pit of his stomach as he refills the glass isn't unease. It's downright fear.

"Oh no, Vince. See that's where you're wrong." Noah Puckerman's eyes have dulled as he drags a few silver coins out of his leather jacket and drops them to the counter top. There is a dull unease behind his brown eyes and LaSalle has the sudden urge to run far away – only his feet don't move from the mat upon which they're resting.

"I didn't have a childhood – I didn't remember a childhood past leaving Lima when I was thirteen. It's like that whole part of my life vanished. Except now…after a call from Matt fucking Rutherford – it's all back. And my head won't turn off no matter how much I need it to. Do you know what it feels like to be so afraid – Vince – of something that you can't even recall? … I do." The coins press beneath his palm on the countertop and Vincent tracks them coldly.

"I have two of these left. Silver cartwheel dollars. Pure silver, I gave one to Quinn once. Quinn and Rachel –" And as Noah reaches over to down the rest of his second glass of Jack, Vincent tenses as he watches him get up on stable feet with clearer eyes than his own.

"Where you going Puckerman, not staying tonight?"

"No…I've got a long drive ahead of me. And demons to slay."

"I thought you were in season…"

"The Skins can wait. I've got a few things to settle first."

And Vincent watches him go – he's almost like a ghost with his pallor and his slow cadence. For a second the old man's blood runs cold as he swears he can almost see the stools and the tables _through_ Puckerman's retreating form. And for the first time, he isn't so positive that Noah Puckerman will be coming back. He watches as the women at the pool table hurry to go say their hello's to a bona-fide football star, and for the first time in the five years that Vincent's served him – he watches wide eyed as the dark haired man turns them down without so much as a second glance. He looks down to find a $100 dollar bill resting on top of the counter and his back trembles. Noah reaches the door from whence he came and with a slow turn his neck cranes as he stares behind him back into Vincent's unusually petrified eyes.

"Have a good night Vince. Until next time, I'm out."

"Later Noah." The old man whispers and he can faintly hear the jeers from the other customers as they yell out their goodbyes to the "Puckasaurus." But as he watches the tan man's jacket meet the cold wind outside and disappear into the night, he isn't sure that he feels any better. In fact he's almost positive he feels even more afraid than ever before. For what? – He couldn't possibly know.

 

**_Tina Cohen- Chang Takes A Ride_ **

* * *

She wants children.

She wants them so hungrily that it breaks her heart.

She can feel the pressurized cracks breaking through her chest with every day that she returns to St. Francis General. But she has no choice. She is the leading physician in the Pediatric Unit, with scientific journals and accolades to frame the pristine walls of her ornate office. And yet – with every step that she takes in the direction towards her location of work, her heart breaks just a little bit more.

Hundreds.

She's delivered hundreds of babies. Boys, girls, things, its.

And with every life that she brings forth into this cruel world, she wonders just how much good she's done? It didn't take much for her to make it in Medical School. Johns Hopkins to boot after an undergrad at Rice. And she thought that at thirty-five, successful and well provided for – that she would be happy. She deserves to be _happy_. And yet with each year that propels her into middle age – the truths simply continue to stack in her odds. She's single, divorced. Childless and alone – but not for lack of trying; in fact – that's what obliterated her last marriage to James Huang- Jorgensen.

They met under similar pretenses. They were both undergrads at Rice University with extremely unyielding identity issues. Hers being adoption, his being multi-ethnic backgrounds and an interracial – half Chinese, half Swedish family tree with no boundaries. They were both lost in the "Asian? Not Asian Enough" category all throughout adolescence and it was comforting for Tina to finally find someone who _understood_.

By the time she was twenty-six she was happily married and packing up her bags for an internship at St. Francis General in Brooklyn. James followed her blindly, seeking out pro-bono work in the city. And they were happy. They cooked and ate dinner together, drank good wine. Had sex at least once a week. Until Tina turned twenty-eight and her residency was just taking off. James was stressed – he had been laid off. And with every month that passed – Tina would cry when the cramps would start. Signaling a failure she was much too accustomed with.

They had tried fertility clinics. The "It's not you, it's me debate." And their questions were never answered. She was fertile, James was exceptionally virile – "Just bad luck" they said. "Don't try so hard, it'll happen." They said. But by the time the dawn broke on Tina and James' fifth wedding anniversary, the jig was up. And the Volkswagen was packed with all of his belongings. "I'm tired of this life, Tina." He said. And without so much as a goodbye, he sped off into the distance, leaving behind a broken marriage and tea-stained divorce papers on the coffee table.

Tina's surprised she's even made it this long without him.

If anything, she's consumed herself even further into her work. Basking in her own success at the one place that she excels. Her old stutter is irrelevant here, her failures inconsequential. All that matters is her skill, and her knowledge of medicine. But it doesn't fill the void. Now, or then, it never could. It's been a grueling week. This is already her fifth delivery and it's only Wednesday. She got the call half an hour ago and assured the anxious couple that everything would be fine. But as she sits in a Taxicab stuck in traffic in the middle of Brooklyn she isn't sure that it will be.

Stop and go.  
Stop and go.

Green Light.

_Hoooooooooonk!_

They haven't moved more than three feet, and her time is running out. Her eyes close to all of the noises around her, she rolls up her sweater sleeves, and traces the outlines of her wristwatch. She really doesn't want to be here. It suddenly hits her as she sits in traffic on her way to a delivery that she could care less about. This is not what she wants anymore. And it takes all of the resolve that she has left not to cry in the back of this Taxicab. She settles for a loud sigh, and when she calls her office at St. Francis she informs them that she won't make it. They assign Dr. Rodriguez- Losada to the patient and that's that. Another call to the Warrens and they're crying at their insanely bad luck as she instructs the wife through contractions. "You'll be fine Mrs. Warren, I _promise_. Dr. Rod is amazing; you're going to have the most beautiful baby girl, even if I can't make it. Alright, now _breathe_."

Just breathe.

She hangs up the call and deflates against the cracking leather. The cell phone feels heavy in her hands as she blinks back all of her tears and all of her shortcomings. And before she can even let the self-pity completely swallow her whole her phone is ringing again. She pinches the bridge of her nose and collects herself, positive that this is Mrs. Warren again, calling for more guidance. Only – it isn't Mrs. Warren, and when she hears the voice on the other end of the line, her blood runs cold.

"Dr. Cohen –Chang."

"Tina? This is Matt Rutherford, I'm glad I've finally reached you."

Her voice is shallow and her heart palpitates beneath her ribcage at an alarming rate. _Matt Rutherford?_ That name suddenly brings forth images of a time long ago, a time that she's all but forgotten…until now. She breathes heavily into the receiver and has to remind herself to calm down. But how can she? When all she sees are the fading images of David Karofsky chasing her with a switchblade? The way her feet stumbled over each other in the sewers, the way her back tingled with fear while Quinn Fabray lead the way to their deathbeds. She's here, she's alive and well – and now, she remembers the promise she made when she was ten. And she remembers hoping that it would never have to be enacted. And as the light turns green and their cab passes by a gruesome accident on the shoulder, she's positive she's never felt more afraid.

"Oh _G-G-God_." She can hear her own voice cracking in her skull and she buries herself into the leather, it's as if she's trying to escape her sudden reality, knowing all too well that that isn't at all possible.

"Can you come?"

"Y-Y-Yes."

"Get here as soon as you can."

And the line cuts off and her phone falls to the floor beneath her feet. She breathes heavily as she catches her breath, and then she glances up past the divider, noticing for the first time that the cab driver is staring back at her curiously. She wipes at her eyes and meets his gaze – the fear wracking her body and engulfing it in waves.

"I n-n-need you to t-take m-me to JFK."

"Miss…?"

"No – no…f-first, take me to the corner of Bushwick Avenue a-and Cooper. "

The cab driver nods and as they reach the intersection he turns right headed towards Broadway. After fifteen minutes they end up in the Bushwick neighborhood in Brooklyn and Tina is grabbing her purse and her wits as the cab pulls to a steady stop in front of her modest brownstone.

"W-Wait here, I'll be right out." And suddenly she realizes that she's stuttering. How long has she been doing that? She hasn't stuttered in years. And suddenly she can feel the trips of her tongue against her teeth and she sucks in a steady breath. This can't be happening. _This can't be happening_.

"Lady, you're looking at $43.52 right now, if I wait I keep the clock running."

"I-I don't care….just w-wait. I'll be t-ten minutes." She grimaces at the way the words echo brokenly against her skull. She can't for the life of her stop the broken record and it makes her want to cry all over again.

The cab driver nods as she watches him pull out a pack of Pall Malls and light one as he exits the cab and leans up against the hood. She takes this as her leave and digs her keys out of her purse as she makes her way through her front door. The first thing she sees is her and James' wedding photo. Her wedding ring sits next to it, she throws it on the ground and doesn't even blink when the glass shatters all over the hardwood floor.

_Screw James_.

_I hate my job_.

_I hate my life_.

_SCREW LIMA_.

She walks to the bedroom and grabs the first suitcase she's sees, packing it with coats and shoes and jeans and blouses. She isn't even really paying attention as she fills it. She adds her toiletries next: a toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, face wash. There are things that she's forgetting she's sure, but she doesn't care. And ten minutes later she's barreling down her stone steps with a Samsonite in her hand and her purse in the other. Her eyes are wild and bright, and the cab driver pulls her bag into the trunk before climbing back into the driver's seat. She stares at the meter, it reads $61.17 now, and she couldn't give any less of a damn. She's got at least $200 in her wallet, and thousands in her bank account.

"JFK, departures." Her voice is hollow and thin. But the driver nods his head in understanding and puts the car into drive. She closes her eyes as the wheels turn beneath her and the brownstones pass by. She isn't sure that she'll see any of this ever again – and right now. She can't find a reason to care.

_She hates Brooklyn_.

 

**_Finn Hudson Takes A Flight_ **

* * *

The smell of manure burns his nostrils in the best way.

The muscles along his back ripple and bend as he heaves his arms into the pile with a pitchfork, slinging it over his sweating shoulder onto a rusted truck bed. His brow is sweaty and his eyes sting from the burn. His shoulders are a little red and flaky on top from the long hours in the sun. But he doesn't particularly mind. His Cleveland Browns baseball cap hovers over his brown eyes, shielding them in shadow. He's been doing this for almost ten years, and he's good at it. In fact he's more than good. If he were to turn around all that he would see for miles would be fields upon fields of produce. Organic squash, beets, carrots and parsley among other things – farming has become his life – and in all fairness, his life has become farming. On any given day, if you were looking for the leading organic supplier of beets in the United States, you'd be re-located to Hudson & Rivers Food Coalition, based right outside of Fargo, North Dakota. He's not rich in any means – but he's sustained a comfortable lifestyle, both financially wise and business wise. Most of the money he accumulates in a year goes straight back into production, and he's fine with that anyway. Rivers Gordon is probably his best friend nowadays – and also his business partner. They met during their undergrad at Purdue at a frat party. And since then – they've basically gotten by on their own means. Rivers with a degree in Agriculture Economics (he's the brains), and Finn with a degree in Agriculture Production, which sounds a lot smarter than it, actually is.

And today, Rivers sits in their shared office at the base of their farmland making orders and calls nationwide for supply and production. Finn is out on the fields, assisting their farmhands with the new crops for the season. He has on a flannel button up that hangs openly over a white wife beater. The sleeves are rolled up over his dirtied forearms. And his jeans and boots scuff against the soil as he continues to haul fresh manure into one of the trucks. His father would be proud of how far he's come along – he never intended to even make it to college, let alone graduate and make something of himself. He almost wishes his dad where alive now to see. Almost. And with another heave of his shoulders he slings a fresh wave of horse dung into the carrier. Stopping briefly to catch his breath as his arms settle on the handle of the pitchfork.

He's a handsome guy. At least that's what the women tell him down at the local brewery just out of Fargo, and he's not sure if it's a widely held opinion, or just people humoring him. But nonetheless he's had his share of flings over the years. He's pushing thirty-five but he still holds some of that boyish charm. Add to the fact that he's tall and roughly built from years of amateur football and hard labor. He isn't too shabby. He's no six-pack of course, but he's also no beer belly – a nice handsome in between – and he's absolutely content with that. He brings a water bottle to his lips and takes a large swig, chilling his throat. And it's at this precise moment that Rivers Gordon pages him on his walkie. The beeping attracts his attention as he unclips it from his broad waistband.

"What's up Riv?"

"Nada mucho Hud, how's it going out there?"

"Good, I think we're making good time. We'll probably be set for the rototill by Friday, if we keep this pace."

"Sounds good. Anyway I was paging cause you've got a call. Said it's urgent. I've got it on hold for you."

"Thanks, I'll be there in ten."

The truck hums loudly as Finn revs up the old F450, making his way down the dirt pathways and past their fields. He can see the office and headquarters off in the distance and takes another swig of water as he hits the accelerator. When he arrives, he jumps down and walks into the front door, immediately exhaling at the feel of the churning A/C. He sets his walkie-talkie down in the charger base and walks into the back office, grabbing a Coors out of the mini-fridge on his way there. Rivers is sitting down at the desk in jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt with boots. His desk is covered with paperwork and file work and the phone buzzes with lines. Rivers waves him over with the black telephone sitting between his neck and collarbone as he points to the back room for Finn to take his call. Finn nods and ruffles the blonde hair on Riv's head before walking to the back room of the office and taking a seat in the small chair. He picks up the phone and hits the HOLD button just as he takes his first swig of beer. He almost spits it out when he hears who's on the other end of the line.

He hasn't heard from Matt Rutherford in almost twenty-two years much less remembered him. And as he nods and grunts to the formalities taking place over the phone, too many memories are flooding back beneath his eyelids – and he doesn't like it.

"Finn? …It's Matt. Matt Rutherford." The line is silent for almost an entire minute as Finn downs his entire beer and lays his dirty hand on his forehead. Why does that name bring back so many memories? He can vividly see his ten-year-old self, still a little chubby from the baby fat and the Twinkies, building forts and biking with Noah Puckerman, Sam Evans…Quinn Fabray. He remembers things from that period in time that he'd rather not. The St. Evan's overflowing, the foul taste of sewage and decay in the air; the feel of warm mucous running down his face as Azimio Adams punches him in the gut. It all sends a cold shiver down his spine and he clears his throat.

"You there?"

"Yea, yea…I'm here."

"I'm sorry that I'm even having to call in the first place. But we need you."

"I…understand."

"The promise."

"I know…"

"Can you be here in the next couple of days?"

"Count me in."

And as the phone disconnects and Finn puts it back into its cradle he can feel his body buckling in his chair. He wants to yell and scream and take everything back. Fuck promises he made when he was no more than a kid. But then he remembers the turtle; and the house on Griffin Street. He remembers werewolves in the night, and blood in the drains. He remembers bodies floating in the St. Evans, and evil clowns with rotting pointed teeth luring him under the bed. And he realizes, that he has to go. This was never an option. And just as he begins to compose himself he can see a shadow darken the doorway to the back-room where he's seated himself. He looks up to see Rivers staring at him curiously. There's a trace of worry behind his kind eyes.

"Hey Finn, important call?"

"You could say that Riv."

"Something wrong?"

"A lot of things are wrong… look, I need a favor." And Rivers nods his head immediately; wary at the look his best friend is giving him. It makes him feel uncomfortable, and scared all at the same time – which in itself is a ridiculous notion because Finn Hudson couldn't hurt a fly. Or could he?

"Ok, Shoot."

"I have an emergency sort of. But I need to take a flight as soon as I can book one into Ohio. I'm going back home."

"Ohio? I thought you were from Indiana?"

"I grew up in Indiana, after I moved there when I was eleven. But I was born and raised in Lima, Ohio first."

"Oh, you never talk about it."

"Because up until right now…there was nothing to talk about."

"You're creeping me out, bud."

"Get in line." And Finn laughs humorlessly as he rests the dirty palms of his hands on his eyes – pressing in firmly. "Look, I don't know how long I'll be gone but I trust you Riv. We're almost done with the rotation and we've got a great team. You already know our order information, and you're our business guy anyway. But I _need_ this. I need some time."

"Alright, alright. I've got it Finn. I'll take the reigns. And I won't ask any questions if you don't want me to…just get whatever it is that you're dealing with sorted out. I'm here for you if you need me."

"Thanks Rivers."

"You're my best friend Finn. You shouldn't even have to ask." Finn nods, before removing his Browns baseball cap to run a hand through his wild brown hair. He's in need of a haircut, but that seems almost inconsequential now.

"I'm gonna take the truck and get outta here."

"Good luck brother."

And with a swift goodbye, Finn grabs another beer out of the cooler and hops back into his truck. The gravel spews out behind him as the tires drift away from the farm. He can see Rivers watching him go from his side-mirror, he's got his hand in his pockets as he stares at Finn's departure. And Finn pushes the mirror to the side, knocking the reflection out of perspective as he drives on. His first stop: Hector International Airport. By the morning, he won't even be able to look back.

 

**_Mercedes Jones Takes A Standing Ovation_ **

* * *

_"I believe in you and me, I believe that we will be,_

_in love eternally…"_

Her voice is controlled and calculated in this small jazz club. Her hands cup the microphone stand confidently as she closes her eyes, letting the keyboardist follow along behind her on the small, dimly lit stage. Her eyes close as the ascension begins in the chords, and she can feel the vibration of her vocal chords as they reverberate with a steady thrum of sound. Her eyelids are closed but she can sense all eyes on her. Captivated, enthralled. It's just another work night for her.

_"You will always be the one for me, oh yes you will._

_I believe in dreams again, I believe that love will never end…"_

She opens her eyes now and settles on the audience huddled around the stage in small two and three-seater tables. Their eyes are glazed, and she can feel them following her voice like it's a divine ascension. She wants to laugh at their naiveté, she wants to pause the music and point at every single one of them and their foolishness. Because, they are nothing more than fools – but she sings on – enrapturing their devotion around the pad of her tongue with every syllable, every word that falls from her painted lips like a lover's caress.

_"And like the river finds the sea-aaaaa,_

_I was lost, but now I'm fr-eeee._

_Cause I believe in you and m-eeeee."_

It's been fifteen years of hard, ass-kicking work, and all that Mercedes Jones has to her name is a small apartment off of Bourbon Street, and a mediocre credit score. "You'll make it in Atlanta," they told her after high school graduation. "You're voice is one of a kind, you'll get that record deal," others promised. "Baton Rouge is where the producers are," they brainwashed her. And as the months and years have ticked by, all that has been left for her is an empty sack of broken promises and dreams, and a two a night gig at Lorenzo's Jazz and Dance Club in New Orleans, Louisiana. It's a steady paycheck and a loyal audience – but she's tired. So tired, of having to sacrifice so much – for so damn little.

Her hands caress the mic stand with confidence as she switches her hips to the rhythm of the music. She's in her own world when she sings – it's otherworldly and freeing like no other thing could possibly be. But it's all she has. And she can't do this forever.

It hurts impossibly too much.

And so she rolls with the punches. She watches her audience sway with the music that she provides as they acquiesce to the continual flow of spirits. She lets them flatter her and tell her that she's meant for so much more. She knows they pity her. How could they not, when she in turn pities herself?

_"Maybe I'm a fool,_

_To feel the way I do._

_But I will play the fool forever,_

_Just to be with you forever."_

And here is the crescendo they've all been waiting for. The note that officially classifies her in a league all her own – she can belt it like the best of them, and she can feel her chest expanding with the large intake of air. The world around her stops, and she can only feel her body – the lilt of her tongue, the heaviness of her lungs. And she knows, surely – this must be what heaven feels like. That millisecond of peace when the audience stares transfixed, assured of a divine occurrence where talent eclipses everything around them. She can feel it, and she wishes that her whole life could be spent in the beauty of a crescendo. Riding the tranquility with grace and eternal peace.

_"I believe in miracles!_

_"And love is the miracle._

_And yes, baby you're my dream come true._

_I was lost, and now I'm free._

_Cause I believe, I do, believe in you and me._

_See, I was, lost._

_Now I'm free._

_Cause I believe in you,_

_…and me."_

But all perfect things must come to an end. And as the music fades to a whisper, her reality is brought back to life as a standing round of applause reel her back in. She smiles politely, and she bows her head in "thanks." But she's secretly saddened that all of this has come to an end. A tally mark on her wall of nights spent wasting away at Lorenzo's. And she wishes she never settled in New Orleans. She walks off stage and heads towards the bar, shaking hands with awed fans and drunken applauders. She needs a stiff drink, she always does after a set – it seems to make the burn and the heartache much more bearable than it would be otherwise. Jackie is behind the counter, he smiles at her as he slides over her regular Vodka and lime – he knows her too well. She's grateful for his understanding.

"Nice song selection tonight Toyota." He knows that she hates his jokes and jabs on her name – but he does it every night. And today, she can't find it in her to chastise him for it.

"Thanks Jack." The drink is perfect for her senses. She closes her eyes as she feels it hitting her throat – chilling it and burning it all at the same time.

"By the way, you got a phone call lady. You were in the middle of your set and boss didn't want me to disturb you. Shit, you were singing Whitney, and I wouldn't have disturbed you regardless. But there's a call back number on a post-it note sitting by the phone out back, just for you babe." Mercedes nods and smiles at him before downing the rest of her drink to an ostentatious whistle by one of the other bar patrons. She winks at him suggestively before making her way to the Employee Entrance at the side of the bar – her dress sashaying behind her as she reaches the telephone in the back. The number sitting on the bulletin board looks unfamiliar but something about the area code - sends a jolt through her. There's a familiar unease settling in the fog, and for a second she can swear that she sees a visible cold mist leaving her lips as the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. But the thermostat reads a comfortable 68…and the chill doesn't seem _right_. She shoulders her strength despite the unease and picks up the phone, dialing the number slowly with measured pause. It picks up on the third ring – and as Mercedes stares into her reflection in the nearby window, for a split second she swears she can see a werewolf, with bloody claws and bright orange buttons down his letterman jacket coming for her. She almost screams – but when she blinks again, it's gone. And she's left with a racing heart, and a heavy soul. Because, she knows who's calling – she knows before he even says a word.

"Matt. I hoped I would never have to get this call." Her voice is shaky and her eyes dart around her periphery in fear. She's known fear like this before, and it's terrifying how easily it's managed to seep back in to the cracks, laying a firm foundation on moldings that were already there.

"You and me both Mercedes. _You and me both…can you come?_ "

"I don't want to…but do I have a damn choice?"

"We promised." She sighs heavily as she rests her forehead against the cool wall, shutting her eyes to all of the things that are suddenly flooding from the depths. From a time that she for so long hadn't remembered – as the seconds tick by, more and more begins to float to the surface, and her fear knows no bounds.

_We all float down here Mercedes. Even fat lard twats like you! I bet you float, I bet you float better than all the rest._

_You fat piece of shit._

_I'm coming for you…_

"I'll be there."

And when the line cuts off, all she can do is sink to the floor, resting her heavy head on her knees. The tears come despite her will to keep them at bay. And she just hates New Orleans so _damn much_. Her mouth opens to words that can't escape, and she shakes against the concrete wall. Her ears dying out to a silence that is anything but peaceful as the outer lobby reverberates with the excitable small crowd. Their chants and cheers are nothing more than a means to an end. And Mercedes trembles, as Lima, Ohio has become her reality. She cowers to the cacophonous sounds of an "Encore" beckoning her back onto a stage where she's never belonged.

Whitney Houston's lyrics won't be able to save her now.

Not where she's going.

It's not as if they ever could.

_"I will play the fool forever."_

 

**_Brittany Pierce Takes A Hotline_ **

* * *

She's always been unnaturally perceptive.

It's almost like a sixth sense.

_Almost_.

She likes to consider herself of direct relation to Shirley MacLaine, simply for the fact that the lady played in "Steel Magnolias" and she has a soft spot for Dolly Parton. But also because Mrs. MacLaine is a notable spiritualist and occultist – she can respect that. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication. And Brittany isn't sure that she has enough of that to make her gift a profession. But she has fun nonetheless. She found an ad in the paper a couple of years ago for a phone psychic. It seemed like fun, plus there was a really cool picture of a genie and a lamp over it – and she's always loved _Aladdin_. It took a phone call to the dispatch company and soon she was getting her own number code, and instructions for tracking hours and wages. Within two days – Brittany was receiving calls throughout the day from drunk college kids within the metro area, and elderly lonely adults who were looking for answers. She mostly relied on her natural talents to give proper answers – nonetheless, it paid for her parties and her shoes, and her food.

The dancing takes care of everything else. She's an assistant choreographer in the entertainment industry. She's worked on dozens of music videos and a handful of films. Doling out her instructions. It's time consuming and incredibly taxing but she loves the thrill of it, and the rush of adrenaline that floods her system with every jolt of motion that comes rippling out of her toned muscles. She's a natural really. Today however, is not a dance day. It's a psychic on the side day, and she shuffles around her small apartment with a bowl of _Lucky Charms_ mixed with _Trix_ , and fluffy socks with ducks on them. Hovering the phone in the space between her chin and shoulder as her jaws crunch around the cereal.

"Madame Bovary-Blue speaking." She has to swallow the confectionary breakfast away quickly so that she can sound more professional. she speaks through a spoonful. Catching the milk that drips from her lip quickly with a finger.

"Hello, are you the psychic hotline?"

"Madame Bovary-Blue knows no hotline bounds. But would like to inform her clients that she sees a payment of $1.75 per minute in their future if they wish to extend this phone call past three minutes. Is that agreeable darling?"

"Yes."

"Let us begin. What is your name bright one?" She lets an air of mystery swirl around her tongue as she speaks. She has also adopted a rudimentary Russian accent for authenticity purposes.

"…Shouldn't you know that already? I mean you're the psychic."

"Of course, but talent is not wasted on the mundane. Tell me you're name and I'll tell you your future. You cannot wager on readings, we don't always see what our hearts desire of us to see."

"I guess…well my name's Amy."

"Madame Bovary-Blue sees your future Amy." Brittany inflects an airiness into her tone of voice as she tries to silently fill her mouth with another spoonful of cereal. She smiles at the milk in her bowl while it changes colors. She remembers that she has caller I.D. and brings the phone down to her eyes, seeing the name written plainly in black across the small L.E.D. screen.

"Amy…M- Miller. You are an interesting one."

"Woah, how'd you know my last name?"

"Psychics are true seers darling, it's in our _blood_."

"Well…that's creepy."

Brittany shrugs and places her bowl down on the small table in her kitchen as she moves to sit on top of one of her countertops. Her socks slide on the tile before she pulls herself up, and when she does, she comes into direct eyesight of her picture collage on her old refrigerator. She smiles at all of the familiar faces, frowning fractionally when her mind wavers to a faded photo in the center of all the mayhem. A ten-year-old Santana Lopez smiles up at her brightly, with tan cheeks and a messy ponytail. Her bangs fall into her brown eyes, and she's got a smudge of dirt tainting the side of her neck. Quinn can be seen blurrily in the background, her arm extended, as if she's making a grab for the camera but she's just out of reach. That was a good summer Brittany thinks as she loses time staring at the old memento. And her heart pangs sadly for her friends. She's kept track of all of them over the years…things like Lima, aren't at all forgettable for people like Brittany Pierce. Empathy is much too magnetic.

She keeps a piece of the nightmare with her. She always has, and fortunately for her, the dancing helps quell the fear. She moved away years ago. And as she kept track of the moves they've all made over the years, it doesn't mean that any of them have kept track of her. She's worked for some of Santana's artists before, on music videos and promotional releases, but Santana's all but forgotten the blue-eyed beauty in the flurry of life that's engulfed her since their childhood. It hurts…. every day it hurts. But they're soul mates, they have been since they were six years old – and if anything…Brittany is saving herself for the day that Santana Guadalupe Lopez does remember. And when she does…maybe they'll finally have their chance.

In the meantime she watches from afar. She does her work, and she lives her life. Watching with painted blue eyes the journeys that they've all made. She hears of Quinn, Santana, Rachel, and Noah the most. The four of them run in similarly large circles within the sports and entertainment worlds. That doesn't mean that they speak to one another…it just means that none of them are as alone as they seem to think.

In her musings, Brittany's forgotten about her client, and concentrates on the phone-line. When she hears a dial tone from Amy's end she drops the phone onto the counter and swings her sock clad feet to and fro silently. She's waiting. She's not sure what for, but ever since she had woken up this morning, a thought had stricken her. A thought that perhaps, today, everything would change…she isn't wrong. Not five minutes after she's settled down the phone, does it ring again. There is no I.D. for the number that's calling. _Unlisted_ , she thinks.

_Madame Bovary-Blue at your service._

_Psychics run in my family, I'm a natural sure._

_Tarot cards or palm reading darling?_

"Madame Bovary-Blue at your service." She brings back the Russian accent, and she adds a wispiness to her voice for authenticity. But when the calm voice on the other end of the line infuses her senses, she can't help the fall of her lashes or the slow swell of her bright smile.

"Brittany?"

"Matt! I've missed you so much."

He has a happiness in his voice that sounds foreign in it's lack of use as of late. Brittany would be sad at the thought, but she's too happy to be hearing from him at all. They haven't spoken in almost a year, and she loves to hear about his life in Lima when she can.

"Hi B. I missed you too. How are you holding up? Did you get the Christmas present I sent you?"

Brittany looks down at her duck socks and smiles again. She hadn't even realized she'd put them on this morning. Matthew Rutherford has always been nothing but perceptive.

"I'm wearing the socks right now actually. They're super duper comfy."

"I'm glad."

"Me too... I always love hearing your voice, Mattie."

"Likewise." Brittany can hear the inflections of worry seeping into the calm tone of his voice. It's like a slow burn, the way it freezes her insides. She can hear the failed attempt at nonchalance, but now as she sits atop her counter in fuzzy duck socks – she knows that something is wrong. And that makes her much too sad for her own good.

"What's wrong?" She can hear the way he hesitates on the other end of the phone line and this makes her worry her bottom lip between her teeth. The small baby hairs at the back of her neck rise and fall. A slew of gooseflesh prickle up along her arms and thighs.

"Brittany…I, I never wanted to have to make this call." She can feel the tears burning the corners of her eyes as her heart clenches. She knows what he's calling for, and she never intended to have to go back and face old demons. The tears aren't for her, but for Matt, and for Santana, and Quinn, and Noah, and Rachel…all of her friends who've made something of themselves despite the horror. She can't bear having to watch them sacrifice new accomplishments away for old terrors. But things like this…places like Lima…always seem to pull you back. And monsters like IT, never stop scaring you. Things like _that_ wait in the wings, and they rip everything that you once knew away from you until you have nothing left.

She doesn't wish that on anyone.

She can't witness it all over again.

_The ducks won't save her this time._

_The ducks float too._

But a promise is a promise…and so she squeezes her arm around her torso to keep herself composed, and she brings back Madame Bovary- Blue in a show of escapism. If only for the moment, and Matt's always had a liking for the Madame. Even on the hard days.

"You need me to come back, don't you darling?" He laughs hollowly into the receiver, humoring her. Although they both know that Madame Bovary won't be able to save either of them where they're going.

"How did you know?"

"I am a psychic dear…a seer. Nothing is out of my grasp. When will you be needing my services?"

"As soon as an old psychic can make it."

"Ah…I do see a vacation in my near future. Until then Mr. Rutherford."

"Until then…"

The line clicks and Brittany drops the phone down to the floor, watching it fall apart into a dozen small pieces. She stares at it morosely; the tear tracks still fresh on her now tired face. And as she raises her deep blue eyes back up, she sees the image on the fridge, and a beaming Santana Lopez. And for the first time in a long time – she doesn't feel quite so alone.

 

**_Kurt Hummel Takes Advice_ **

* * *

Public relations are _easy_.

So is running a top of the line agency as VP by the time you're 28.

And by the time Kurt Timothy Hummel turned 32, he was President at large. Adrift in a sea of lesser than thou's and personal assistants. His client list is long and golden with star power. His events newsworthy and tabloid making; his accomplishments have propelled many careers and floundered hundreds of others. And in the midst of all of this success, he has maintained a life of relative solitude and late nights; Empty champagne bottles and a slight addiction to _Lunesta_ and _Ativan_ minus the rehabilitation. The pills are not without their necessity. As the days have grown shorter and his solidarity longer, the dreams have become much too vivid. He sees them in the middle of the day now, at events, while leading meetings, sometimes while meeting clients. The clown in a red pom pom jumpsuit with eyes as yellow as the melting sun…it calls to him. And it shakes his dreams, and his reality.

His meetings with his psychiatrist, Dr. Reed Murray-Blinder have almost tripled in the last year, on a correlating scale with his worsening lack of sleep. And every other day in between his two o'clock meeting and lunch, he finds himself astride a suede coach in a cold upper Manhattan building. Watching life pass before his weary eyes as Dr. Murray assesses his progress.

"Did you have any nightmares last night Kurt?" His voice is calm and soothing, and Kurt hates it. He always has, but Dr. Murray-Blinder is the best in the city, and Kurt deserves nothing less than the best.

"When don't I have nightmares nowadays _Doctor_?" His tone is mocking and not quite so subtle, but he has a migraine, and he hates this office.

"I'm just asking a question. That's the only way we're going to get answers, Kurt." Dr. Murray sighs before grabbing a pen and twirling it between his thin fingers. "Why don't we start from the beginning? What do you remember of your dreams last night?"

"Not very much. They're hazy, and I have no idea where I am even though there's a familiarity there that I can't decipher. And I feel like a child…my childhood was uneventful and I don't remember much after me and my father moved to Boston but…they leave me feeling, unnaturally haunted…and I think they're getting worse."

"Do you want to elaborate?"

"There's – a clown. I don't know his name or why he's been showing up. But if you had to suffer his coming every night in your dreams, you wouldn't be quite so patronizing. In fact, doctor. I think you'd probably cripple under the terror."

"I believe you Kurt, what does this – clown look like?" Kurt laughs humorlessly then, almost in a cackle as he brushes at an eyebrow in an attempt to stop his trembling.

"Orange pom pom's, bright jumpsuit. Blood red fangs and breath as rotten as corpses laid to rest. He comes for me in the night…he whispers things…sometimes, he follows me when I'm awake."

"And what do you mean by that? He follows you? How long has this been occurring, since our last session?

"He doesn't simply follow me in my nightmares anymore. These d-dreams started almost six months ago, and within the last five days he won't leave me be. I see him in deserted hallways, sometimes in the conference rooms at the firm…when I look into the mirror..."

" And how does that make you feel?" Kurt is near tears now. Unfortunately there is always a moment when one loses their audience, any great performer would know. It's almost like a silent eclipse, when the two worlds suddenly don't converge any longer; and whatever truths they once conjointly shared…suddenly become irreparable falsities. And while Kurt sits here and looks into Dr. Murray's brown eyes, he realizes that he's lost him. Hallucinations, that's what he'll say, and he'll prescribe a new pill for Kurt to keep in his already overflowing medicine cabinet. He'll keep quiet, but in his balding head he's already come to the conclusion that perhaps…Kurt Hummel…is just a little bit crazy.

Kurt doesn't want his advice any more.

Frankly he doesn't need it.

"How does that make me feel…?" Kurt rubs at his weary eyes, knowing that he's already lost. He lost almost six months ago when the dreams began.

"It makes me feel like a lunatic, and it doesn't help that you agree with me."

"Kurt. Mr. Hummel, I'm not – this is a safe space – The—"

"I think I'm done for the day. I'll have my accountant send over the appropriate billing for our session today, and…I don't think I'll be utilizing your services anymore." And he walks out of a too bright office with a wide-eyed psychologist stammering in his wake. Things have not gotten any easier for Kurt Hummel, and by the looks of things – they'll only get harder.

Just last week he was meeting with the executives of _Glaceáu_ about sponsoring a nationally broadcast event, and in the middle of his spiel he could feel the sweat break out on his immaculate brow. A small coif to his hair portrayed the confidence he needed to seal the partnership, but it didn't stop the clown from sneering at him from the back of the room. Pointy, blood stained teeth and a breath as rancid as decayed flesh. He wanted to vomit, all over his immaculately tailored Marseille Canvas Gucci menswear suit. And that is _never_ acceptable.

_"Hey fruity boy…do you like candy?"_

_"Fairies love candy…"_

_"We have fairies down here Kurt, they float too…"_

And now as he stares out of his penthouse apartment suite over a dark Manhattan skyline with a sparkling glass of San Benedetto in his manicured hand, all he can see is his pale reflection in the glass. A failed meeting with Dr. Murray and a dwindling prescription has left him utterly dejected. And when did his dreams become so muddled?

And how can he stop the nightmares?

He fears when he is awake.

He fears when he is asleep.

His hand shakes the sparkling water in his glass, and he has no way of quelling the tremors. They wrack his body, as the world seems to revolve without him. To pass the time he walks delicately over to his vanity and stares deeply into the blue-grey eyes of the boy he doesn't even remember.

Where are you Kurt?

_Please, come back. I don't like it here…_

He sets down his shaking glass and sighs deeply, uncapping the Lunesta and popping back three pills dry. They won't work. He already knows this, but if he stops, he won't have anything to fall back on. His eyes are tired and bleak, and he can see the fear behind them. He wants to shake it away, but it's becoming harder and harder with each quaking second that passes. He takes a deep sigh as he brings a hand to his forehead, cupping it into his palm as his face falls to the desk before him. He needs peace – he craves it.

Peace.

A phone in the distance jolts him awake, and he spends a moment staring at his tired reflection in the mirror, wondering not for the last time what is happening to him. He decides not to let himself wallow in any further self-pity and he rises out of his chair to find his blaring cellular device. It rests on his night table next to a copy of The Omnivore's Dilemma. A book he had no interest in reading, but something about the content called to him in the bookstore, a faint remembrance about something…or someone. A short brunette with an affinity for veganism, but he still can't be sure. He didn't have any short brunette vegan friends growing up… at least not that he could remember, and so at the time he wrote the feeling off as a false memory or a lingering déjà vu. He pulls his smart phone up to his ear and delivers a firm salutation as he skims through the book's crisp pages.

"Hummel of Hummel and Rodaire, may I ask who's calling?"

"Kurt, it's been a while." His fingers still on the page…he knows that voice. And not for the first time today the feeling of cold dread seeps deep down into his bones.

"Matt Rutherford." He gulps weakly. And like an enclosed dam the levee breaks and disjointed images and memories seep through the cracks of a past he had long forgotten.

Lima.

The fearless thirteen.

Clowns with pointed teeth, and spiders with crawling legs, dead bodies under the sewers. And as all of these images assault his brain, Kurt finally pinpoints the source of his nightmares. The clown with gleaming yellow eyes is not just a figment of his over-stressed imagination, no. The clown is real…it has haunted him before. And he remembers. Gasping into the phone he clenches his eyes shut before opening them. They land on the page of the book he still holds in his hands, and the answer comes to him as if it's been there all along. The small brunette with a distaste for animal cruelty and animal by-products came to him that day in the bookstore because she used to be one of his best friends…a long time ago. Rachel Berry was real…is _real_. And so is Lima.

"It's me. I'm so sorry Kurt…"

"Why are you calling…after all this time?"

"I think you already know the answer to that question." Kurt can feel the pressure building up behind his eyelids as he scrambles to find his Ativan in the medicine cabinet, dropping other bottles and things in his haste. When he finds it, he uncaps it to see that it's empty, and his heart clenches at the loss. He can already feel the adrenaline overtaking him, his breath releases in shallow spurts.

"Stay calm…Kurt, are you there?"

"I'm h-here." He manages to wheeze.

"Can you come?"

"I –I…"

"We need you Kurt, we already lost Artie…please." And as those words sink in, Kurt takes deep breathes, letting the shock dwindle into a slight throb. And he groans at the news of Artie Abrams. He hadn't thought about the quiet nerdy kid with glasses in as long as anything else from Lima, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. And he doesn't know what to do, and so he manages a strangled wheeze through the receiver.

"Tell his family that I send my condolences."

"I would…but his parents died almost ten years ago. I'll do my best though."

"Thank you… and Matt?"

"Yes."

"I'll be on a flight by morning."

"Thank you." And Kurt ends the phone call, leaving his cell phone to lie on the bed in his place as he turns to look out at his darkening view. His sparkling water lay forgotten on the vanity, and the condensation is already beginning to form a ring on the wood. Kurt doesn't particularly care, and as he rubs his eyes and climbs into bed, he continues to stare out at a bustling New York City cityscape with broken eyes. And he decides, that perhaps tonight he won't fear the nightmares, he'll just let them come. Because by tomorrow, they'll become his reality…

And from _that_ , there is no escaping.

 

**_Rachel Berry Takes A Xanax_ **

* * *

"Congratulations!" Lisa's voice is much too chipper for 5:15am on a Tuesday morning, and Rachel groans as she pulls her cell phone away from her ringing ears.

"Hmm? Why are you calling me, you're my agent. You should be letting me get my beauty sleep so that I can put money in your pocket. Not the other way around." She can hear Lisa squealing from the other end of the line and sighs as she sits up in bed. "Turn on your TV! The Tony nominations are broadcasting live in New York! You're nominated!" Rachel's eyes go wide as she swings her legs out from under her comforter and bed sheets, her hands scramble for the television remote in the dark hotel room. And when she turns on the large Television in her suite, she settles on CBS, watching the live nominations telecast. She can already see her name scrolling at the bottom of the screen, under recent announcements: " **RACHEL BERRY – BEST PERFORMANCE BY A LEADING ACTRESS IN A MUSICAL FOR "DAISY & LILY**." And as her heart stops she's absolutely positive the room around her is spinning.

"Rachel? Rachel? Are you still there?"

"Ohmygod."

"We're going to the Tony's!"

"Ohmygod"

"I know, isn't this _wild_!" A pregnant pause in the receiver signals an odd silence in the conversation.

"Rachel?" Lisa's voice pierces through the empty space boldly. And perhaps if Rachel weren't staring at one of the single most terrifying moments of her life, she would be much more adequately enthralled by the news. However, things in Rachel Berry's life have never been simple. And as she sits up, cradling a plastic battery-operated Magnavox remote control, she can hear the humidifier humming softly in the corner of her room. Her hair is tied in a loose bun, and her breasts sag perkily and un-supported beneath a heavy and worn t-shirt. Her legs are intertwined loosely, her eyes widely focused on the bright screen across the room; Her hand resting by the dropped cell phone, entangled in the borrowed sheets.

"Rachel...are you there?" Lisa's voice is faint now, almost obsolete in the muffled space around her. She turns up the volume of the TV without even realizing that her fingers have moved accordingly over the appropriate buttons.

"The nominees for Best Performance by a Featured Actor in a Musical are…" Rachel remembers that voice. She turns up the volume a few notches higher.

"Joel Irving as Dr. Ernest Peabody for ' _When It Rains, It Pours_ ,' Seth Loeb-Murray as Billy Kidd for " _Winchester_ ,' Lucas Davies as Greedy Scoundrel for ' _Tides of Grey_ ,' and finally…Foster Witte as Nathan Detroit for ' _Guys and Dolls_.' Congratulations."

And like magic, the camera focuses on who's speaking. Cutting away from the breaking news section and zooming in ominously to a beautiful blonde woman reading from a teleprompter. She stands at a glass podium, with IBM and Tony and Radio City Music Hall insignias framing her lithe form. She's positively radiant in a grey sleeveless ruffled blouse, and a high-waisted dark green pencil skirt, with a small bow embellishment in the back. Her short hair tapers off wildly coiffed and perfectly unkempt around her Grecian jawline. Dangling diamonds –surely they're diamonds – sparkle lightly in the myriad of flashbulbs. Her make-up is impeccable, but for those who know what she looks like without it, also know that she is one of the few on this planet who has no need for it. And Rachel can feel her heart shattering and crumpling like wasted paper beneath her chest as she clutches for her t-shirt blindly, hyperventilating into her other hand; staring at a real-time image of Quinn Fabray through a dusty television screen 3,000 miles away.

_Quinn Fabray, Quinn Fabray. I think we knew each other once…_

"Rachel?"

Lisa.

Lisa is still on the line, and her voice pierces through the fog that has settled in this ostentatiously large suite. Rachel tries to calm down, but she can't stop the contractions of her unruly diaphragm. Much like how she can't seem to stop her eyes from remaining focused on the woman on-screen. She's drawn in like a moth to flame. And yet somehow, by some small miracle she manages to regain control of her cell phone, scrambling to push it up to her ear.

"I'm here."

"What happened? A-Are you _crying_?"

"Um no, that's preposterous…of course I'm not." Rachel tries to calm her breathing, taking in shuddering deep lung-fuls of steady oxygen.

"Rachel, sweetie. You know I don't care, right? I mean this is a big deal. Granted, it's your fifth nomination, and you've already won three times. But I know you. You're emotional. Just let it out, it's all the excitement getting to you. Just pop a Xanax and crawl back into bed. Call me in a few, that's when the reporters will want to get to you anyway." Rachel nods her head, even though she's absolutely positive that Lisa can't possibly know that. And instead of arguing, she simply obliges her agent's request. Letting the cell phone drop back onto the sheets between her legs, as her eyes find the television screen again.

_Quinn Fabray is on my TV screen._

_I haven't seen her in years._

Rachel watches that familiarly unfamiliar smile bend and hitch at all of the appropriate moments and in all of the appropriate times. And she doesn't know how, but she feels a connection there that's almost mystical. It's scary in its mysticism, but her heart beats that much faster, and when Quinn's honey-hazel eyes fall directly center screen – it's almost like she can see her. Like she's staring directly into her wavering soul. Rachel takes a deep breath and nods her head; she hasn't even realized the small trail of tears that have undoubtedly escaped to trail a track down her sleepy face. It's been almost twenty-something years since they've spoken, and Rachel can still smell the pine in her blonde hair. Still hear the echo of her melodiously husky voice; still feel her small hands on her heated skin. They had been running for their lives then, cheating death in pre-adolescence. And if there is anyone from Lima that Rachel vividly remembers…it's her. And her alone…she wonders if Quinn could reciprocate that admonishment. Probably not.

It's neither here nor there for Rachel Berry nowadays anyway. Broadway Star, Golden Globe nominee, Grammy and Oscar winner for best original song. Things have slowly but surely fallen into place, just as they should always have. But it doesn't mean that Rachel never feels alone. She's been alone for quite some time now. It's unbelievable how empty she constantly feels when her life promises so much fulfillment.

Sometimes, life just sucks.

Even when you're someone like Rachel Berry.

Thirty-something, almost millionaire when assets are included. She's Broadway royalty and musical gold. Voice like silken honey, and eyes as deep and brown as rippling dunes in the dessert. Dry like the rays of sun, and cold from years and years of self-hatred.

Rachel Berry is nothing like she'd hoped she'd be when she finally made it out of Lima. Later than most, unfortunately, and at sixteen when she hoped a Greyhound to New York City after finishing the accelerated high school courses through Stanford for gifted youth, to start a new life in a faceless crowd. It was almost inevitable that she wouldn't make it. But after a year of peddling, and dance classes, and courses at the local community theatre…she got an audition. At seventeen, broke, and emancipated, Rachel Barbra Berry was cast as Maria in West Side Story off-off Broadway for $300 a week. And it was golden. She made something of herself in those few months. And by the time her twentieth birthday was coming around, she found herself surrounded by musical –theatre fame. And portraying one of the leads in Fosse right on 42nd. By 21, she had won her first Tony. And things have been smooth sailing ever since…ever since she left Lima.

Lima.

God, she really doesn't miss that place.

She remembers it faintly and disjointedly. The empty stares, the dead-end streets, the listlessness that always hung thickly in the air; rows and rows of cornfields on summer nights, stalks swaying eerily in the breeze. It's almost a miracle that she made it out. Most people don't.

Except Quinn Fabray it seems…

She made it.

And a cold sweat has broken out on Rachel's immaculate skin, tarnishing her polished nightly T-zone routine. She doesn't mind, and she pays it no bother. Things like T-zone's are inconsequential when your life hits you in the face with a metaphorical two by four. Perhaps that analogy is too dramatic – but what the hell – Rachel Berry lives for drama.

_She's beautiful._

Just like your remember her…

But her face is much older now, and the small laugh lines around her lips hold secrets that only she could know. Time has been good to Quinn Fabray, but that doesn't mean that she isn't equally as haunted.

She goes to grab for her cell phone again. Her hand blindly rifling though bed sheets and pillows as her eyes stay focused on the illuminated screen in the darkness. The sun still has yet to rise in Burbank, California. She hates it here. On the West Coast; the sun reminds her of hot summers, and the stares only perpetuate her claustrophobia. She has problems, she knows this – but when has that ever been abnormal. Her too-thin fingers find the cold metal and plastic of her cellular device, and she finds herself tapping out a familiar number. The voice almost shakes her when it comes booming across the line, she fumbles pathetically into the receiver.

"Lisa."

"You rang?"

"Do you happen to have the means to retrieve contact information on Quinn Fabray? Or her personal team perhaps?" The line is dead for a moment, somewhere nearby a clock ticks loudly.

_Tick._

_Tock._

"You mean like her management or publicist's number?" Rachel bites her lip.

"Yes."

"I'm an agent, of course I can get that for you if you need to get in contact with her team. But, Rachel…what's this really about? Are you considering propositioning a collaboration on an upcoming part?"

"Not entirely, no…" The perspiration is back; it feels like the room is caving in around her. Her lungs begin to contract.

"Oh…what is it then?"

"I, just. Have some pressing matters to discuss to her person. If you could acquire the information in a speedy manner, I would greatly appreciate it." Rachel disconnects the call before Lisa can provide an adequate answer for her. And she cuts off the television quickly, shutting her room once again in total darkness. The beginnings of a distant sunrise play on her eyes from the bed. She stares around her room blankly, forgetting what she's even here in LA for. Ah, an audition for a movie role.

That's right.

An audition. The gigantic script is still sitting on the night table where she left it the day before. Color coded and high- lighted, bound and pristine; every thing that her life currently is not.

She should really be going over her lines.

She's more professional than this.

She's Rachel Berry for goodness sake.

She's a star.

But even Rachel Berry has trouble getting back on track when the past comes rearing its ugly head into a future where it is most definitely not welcome. Rachel shudders in the sudden chill, remembering that she's barely clothed at the moment she buries herself inside of her comforter and sheets, her eyes darting up to the ornate wall clock against the far corner of the room. It still ticks, mocking her restlessness.

_Tick._

_Tock._

Get it together Rachel Barbra.

Big deal, you saw Quinn on the Television at the Tony Nominations broadcast no less. No need to get your underpants all in a twist.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_You saw Quinn Fabray today…_

She bites her bottom lip and whines into her pillow, knowing that her

morning routine is shot for good. The reporters and magazines will be calling soon anyway for reports and lines about her nomination. She can't say that she's thrilled; the rush of the nomination was soon outweighed and cast aside by the peculiarly gorgeous blonde that soon commandeered her full attention. Who is even commandeering it now, as Rachel Berry fawns rest at 5:52am on a Tuesday in outside of Los Feliz. Her cell phone rings again. It jolts her awake, she grabs for it without looking at the caller I.D. She mumbles tiredly into the receiver.

"Lisa? Did you get what I asked for –"

"Rachel." She pauses, this is clearly not Lisa. She would panic and cause a great disturbance had she not secured a small ounce of familiarity in the vocal lilt. She can remember voices almost phonetically from years and years of practice…and she's definitely heard this one before.

"Who is this?"

"Matthew Rutherford. It's me, Rachel." And she suddenly remembers it like it was yesterday. A small, light skinned boy singing along to a portable radio on the curb of the sidewalk outside of Randy's Sporting Goods off of Eisenhower. His hair cut short, with a modest fade. High top Air Jordan's on his feet and white socks. A banana and double fudge Firecracker in his hand as he bobs his head to the music blasting out of the nearby speakers.

_"Kriss Kross'll make you JUMP! JUMP!"_

_"It's like this and like that and like this and uh…"_

_"Matthew Daniel Rutherford, that music is heinous!"_

Rachel almost has the gall to laugh at the memory; of a young Matt singing along to rap songs on the radio. Everything was so inherently easy back then, before she met Quinn Fabray that is. And there she goes…

All of the memories from Lima that she's unwillingly lost grasp of. Of Matthew and Quinn and Santana and Sam Evans. Of Tina and Santana, Mercedes, and Puck. Finn and Brittany. Artie. Kurt. All of her friends, at one point or another; all of them confidantes in a world set apart. All of them fighting for life, when all that seemed imminent was certainly death.

She remembers it now. And not just the familiar blonde and their forts in darkened woods, or their groups water fights in murky river water along the outskirts of Shawnee Township. She remembers much, much more. She remembers things that would scare the wits out of adults and grown burly men. She remembers nightmares that they had all only wished could have stayed buried within their dreams – but that followed them out into the daylight. And she remembers how alone she felt in the world, even with friends rallying all against the same evil. The adults couldn't see, they didn't _understand_. And with the burning images of moving gargoyles and evil clowns with rancid breath and razor blade teeth swimming into the forefront of her mind, she has the will to scream. The fear settles deeply into her bones, almost as if it had never left to begin with.

"Matthew... I could never forget that voice."

"I've grown out of the Kriss Kross phase since you last remember me Rachel, but Dr. Dre will always be a personal favorite." Rachel would smile if she weren't so shaky. If she didn't feel like her world was caving in at the seams. She spots the wall clock again, 6:23am. She won't be going on her morning jog today, hell if she even makes it to her audition. Every few seconds or so she can hear the faint buzzing of her cell phone, alerting her to other incoming calls, all press. She pushes through it, ignoring each and every one as the seconds tick by in a terrifying silence.

"Matt, I assume that I already know why you're calling…so we can skip past the pleasantries now if that's okay with you."

"Always straight to the case with you Rachel. That's why you've always been my favorite."

"I'm normally a lush for flattery…however, the situation at hand is much too grave for anything remotely similar. I already feel as if my world has ended…Matthew, can you understand that?"

"I can, but understand this Rachel. My life ended twenty-five years ago when I was left to pick up the pieces. All of you left Lima. And it pains me more than you know to have to be the one to give this call. "

"Than why—"

"You know I have no choice. None of us do." Rachel's face pales.

"How many."

"Two gone last week, three more in the last seven days."

" _Ohmygod_." She hears Matt sigh tiredly through the receiver.

"We can't do this without you. I can't do this without you."

"Matt…'no' never was and never will be an option for me. I promised a long time ago that should the need arise, I would be there…If I can give nothing else, you've always had my word." Matt doesn't respond, but she can tell from the thick silence on the line that he must be nodding his head. She has tears pooling in her eyes and she can't recall when she started crying.

Soon after, she finds herself hanging up with Matt and tucking back beneath her blankets. Her eyes are wide and open, afraid to close to the blackness of her eyelids. Things come out in the dark, and they find you. They always find you.

_"How does it feel to have two faggot father's Berry?"_

_"You little Streisand twat, we're going to find you…KILL you."_

_"You can't run forever, cunt."_

_"WE'LL ALWAYS FIND YOU."_

The tears are strong as she shakes uncontrollably beneath her linens. The sun has already initiated its steady ascent into the Eastern sky, illuminating a still groggy Los Angeles. Rachel fears the light just as much as the darkness now – because nightmares are real, and they'll find her. Where she's going, they'll kill her. She feels her phone buzzing against her chest, and remembers that she's been ignoring her calls for the last hour. She looks at the screen and sees that it's not a call, but a text from her agent. She swipes at the screen with trembling fingers and all that's there in her message inbox are ten numbers, and a name. She exhales and clenches her eyes shut, seeing fangs, and blonde hair, and broken Sun Jewel-Barbie's on cracked sidewalks.

**FROM: Lisa Nguyen – Reiss:**

> (310) 672-4290 – Quinn Fabray

> P.S. Answer your phone. PEOPLE and NEWSWEEK have been trying to call

> all morning.

> P.S.S. You're welcome.

As Rachel struggles to catch her breath, she manages to send out two messages despite her trembling fingers.

**FROM: Rachel Berry**

> Lisa, I need you to book me a flight into Ohio ASAP.

> Preferably Dayton, and no questions.

> -R

> P.S. Thanks.

The other text takes much more time to write and, and even more resolve to send. Her heart beats haphazardly as she tries to collect her scattered wits.

**FROM: (917) 452-1118**

> Quinn,

> I don't know if you remember me. But I'd like to catch up if you

> have any availability in the near future. I have a feeling we might be

> seeing more of each other very soon.

> Give me a call.

> xo, Rachel Barbra Berry

And just like that, the course of Rachel Berry's future is in nobody's hands. She stares at her sent folder and flinches before her eyes land once again on the heady script nearby. She frowns as she stares it. And as her phone rings again, the press relentless in their efforts, she answers brightly. Hiding all of the fear and dread that is bubbling so raucously within her chest. She has work to do. She's a professional.

She's Rachel Berry.

She's a Tony winner and current nominee goddamnit.

And if anything, she's always felt that an air of professionalism is called for in moments of intense clarity. And this moment is one of them. She talks brightly and animatedly to people that she could care less about, and who surely could care less about her. She beams and laughs at all of the right moments, she knows…that this is the end.

This will be the last impression that they have of her before the nightmares come for her once and for all. This is all that she has…she better make it damn good.

And that, she does.

 

**_Sam Evans Takes A Line_ **

* * *

It's not that he's addicted.

Nope, not at all.

He just likes the feeling, and for some reason, the more that he does in one go, the less that he seems to feel. It's a vicious cycle, but he can't help himself. He stands at the far wall of a large house, the rooms are crowded and the speakers blare ridiculously causing his body to hum. He scans the people around him, the glitter floating around in the air. And he smiles. His fingers find his credit card in his back pocket, and he's digging it out as a twenty something girl beside him cranks out a baggie. She's already halfway gone, and he loves that. He envies her. His eyes watch her hands as she empties the small contents onto the counter that they're leaning against; she grabs his card and shuffles it into four identical lines.

It feels so good going down.

Like golden sand, and California poppies.

The burn doesn't even sting anymore.

He can already feel his heart rate climbing, and he's only done two lines. Eventually he'll need more, but he doesn't want to overextend himself just yet. The girl next to him – her eyes are blown, and dilated – she smiles at him lazily and raises her hands above her head as she begins a sloppy dance.

"FUCK YES!" She screams. Sam watches her writhing there. Her clothes are skimpy and almost nonexistent. She has glitter on her face and feathers in her hair. She's probably a model he thinks. Probably Ford.

"ARE YOU A MODEL?" He yells over the loud music. She smiles and nods her head as she dances, oblivious to the world spinning around her.

"LET ME GUESS…FORD?" This time she shakes her head somewhat seductively as she stops to stare at him. She blows him a raspberry and squints her eyes. Yea, she's totally blown.

"No…Elite. All of those motherfuckers at Ford can kiss my tits."

"Oh…well they are nice." The model in question squints her eyes even further; he recovers himself in time to elaborate.

"Your tits I mean…they're nice." She smiles slowly, and breaks out into a barking laugh. She nods and grabs for his hand, spinning him around her as she begins another dance. The song changes to dub step and he's completely gone. Spinning in a world of glitter and feathers and fairy powder, with people that he won't even remember tomorrow. And he's perfectly okay with that.

Some might say that Samuel Percy Evans is throwing his life – for lack of a better word – away. He would disagree with that sentiment. He would probably counteract that argument with an argument of his own. You see, he's quite successfully made something of himself over the past few years when you think about it subjectively. From the way his life started out, things could have turned out much worse for him in comparison. By the next morning he's waking up in his bed with no recollection as to how he could have possibly made it home. His shirt is hanging off of his shoulders, and his boxer briefs are missing. He looks to his right and sees a size-one mystery woman lying naked in between his sheets. She has feathers in her hair and dried paint caked in streaks and handprints along her smooth skin. He rustles her awake with little consideration.

"Hey, get up, please." She moans loudly and shudders beneath his fingertips. He rustles her again, earning a cough and a grunt.

"Hey I don't remember your name. And I don't mean to be rude but, I've gotta get out of here. And when I go, you go." He watches her nod her head evenly. She turns around on her back, her breasts bared and perkily pointing toward the ceiling. She sits up relatively unbothered, and reaches for a cigarette and a roll of matches off of one of the night tables.

"What day is it?" Sam sits up and grabs his black boxer briefs, pulling them up his legs in a tricky maneuver as he still manages to stay seated on the mattress.

"Uh…Thursday I think."

"Holy shit, that was a long fucking bender." She hits a drag and takes a moment to actually study him as he grabs a towel off of the hard wood floor and drapes it over one of his bare shoulders. His abs and chest are visible beneath his open button down; he follows the mystery woman's line of sight and sees the red welts rising up on his skin in five-nail patterns. She smirks, he does too.

"Looks like we had a good time last night."

"Can't say I remember it, but from the looks of things…I think I agree."

She laughs and he joins her hollowly as he makes his way to the en suite bathroom. He doesn't bother closing the door before he starts undressing. He turns to look in the mirror and plays with his hair, running his fingers through the cowlicks absently. He looks down along the countertop and sees the lines of powder they must have left from the night before. Eyeing it, he clicks his tongue.

"Shit, what the hell." He mutters to himself as he bends over the countertop with a single finger holding the side of his left nostril. It takes him less than five seconds to get it into his system, he's already buzzing from the high. He hits on the shower and climbs in, sighing as the water hits the muscles of his back. Within minutes he can hear the woman from the night before find the remainder of their supply. He can hear her snort it from behind the glass, and when the door is pushed back and her naked body falls into his line of vision, right beneath the stream of water…he doesn't have too much to hate at the moment.

"I've got work in an hour."

"Me too, babe. We'll make it quick."

Renata. That was her name. He had gotten it just before they parted ways, she had yelled it to him just as she was getting into the back seat of a Yellow Taxi Cab. He hadn't planned on remembering it, or holding on to it after she left. But here he is, at work…prepping for a scene, and the name is stuck in his head like super glue. He probably won't ever see her again. And he's fine with that, more than fine actually. What's a decent fuck nowadays anyway? But it doesn't mean that doesn't bother him…he shouldn't be this fazed by a name. He only has a few minutes, and that chick is throwing off his entire routine. He closes his eyes and takes two deep breaths.

"Evans, you ready in there?"

"Give me like two more minutes!" He yells back.

"You need some different material or somethin'?" Sam looks up at the medium sized television screen in the small room. A pornographic film plays loudly, and he watches dazedly as the woman on screen engages in fortuitous amounts of sex and foreplay. He still isn't where he needs to be for this scene, and it bothers him. He stares at the TV again, and pales. On a last minute whim, he lets the events of the morning come to him, the model-esque girl with the feathered hair and slim waist. He remembers the fresh welts she made on his back this morning, and he smiles. And as the seconds tick by, he can feel it, he's practically there. God Bless Renata.

"Evans you ready in there yet?"

"Yea, yea. I'm good." The door swings open, and he walks out with a white towel wrapped around his waist. The lights are too bright and he flinches as he walks through cables, wires, and cameramen. The bed in the center is wide with satin sheets. A pack of condoms and a bottle of lube sit just off screen in the corner, both unused. And as he sits down on the bed, he waits for the crew to do their last adjustments and light metering. A sound disturbs the silence and he looks to his left to see his costar arriving, wearing a similar white towel around his waist. He's fairly thin, but oddly muscular with a warm smile. Sam is relieved; he can tell that this guy's done this before. One thing he hates more than anything is a novice…this business was made for professionals. And Sam is nothing but professional when it comes to his profession. He extends a hand warmly.

"Evan Reed." He says brightly; the other man, at least no older than twenty-three smiles and nods as they shake.

"I've seen your work. Timothy…Hyde." Sam nods.

"Hey man. Looks like they're almost ready for us, you know the basics?" Sam watches Timothy intently for a moment.

"Yea, I've got the rough script. Looks like we're starting with the standards."

"Yep, that's what I hear too, and from there…we can play it by ear."

"Sounds like a plan."

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a state of professional adult filmmaking. And if anyone knew that Samuel Percy Evans had come to this, well they may not be so forthcoming. But Sam makes good money. He's a classic in his business, with a six figure bi-monthly sales salary and a production company (The XXX) situated firmly beneath his slim belt. Yes, he does male pornography, no he isn't gay himself. But at eighteen, with no money in his pocket and hungry mouths to feed he had only been given two options: The local Shelter, and seeing his brother and sister end up in the foster care system, or modeling with a local agency. The modeling led to an agent, which led to a small starring role in a low budget soft-core project. The director liked him, and he moved up as a regular. He was in high demand. But what he learned about this business rather quickly was that some of his straight friends were making triple or sometimes quadruple his salary on films. And when he heard about the pay rates in gay male porn, he was sold. The sex was never an issue, most of the other men started in the same boat that he did, gay porn just _paid_ better – it always had. And where food on the table and bill money were concerned, Sam Evans was nothing but grateful.

And here he is at thirty-five. Driving home along the 101 in sunny Los Angeles in his custom painted '73 Mustang. Porn's been good to him all of these years, he can feel the check pressing into his back pocket as he shift gears and he smiles – staring at a bright highway and taillights ahead of him. After a moment he feels his Bluetooth beep in his ear and he clicks the CALL button as he switches lanes.

"Evan Reed, professional adult film star and producer…"

"Sam." He stops short for a second and almost rams into the car to his immediate right. A loud honk resonates in the air somewhere and Sam suddenly finds himself pulling the wheel over and turning on his hazards just as he parks along the side-rail. No one's called him Sam in years.

"Who is this? Do I know you?"

"Sam…it's me, Matt. Remember?"

"Oh…fuck me." Sam remembers it all now, at least what he can. It comes to him in spurts and blips and it stings at his eyes. They were so young, _so goddamn young_. His family up and moved from Lima right after that summer, his Dad lost his job at the plant, and the family packed up the Astrovan and moved somewhere out in Virginia. Sam remembers this as the period where they lived out of their car for six months. He doesn't like to dwell on his past…but _this_. Lima…is a totally different kind of pain altogether. He sees it burn his retinas, and the images cake themselves against his eyelids, indelible. Clowns, and monsters that live under children's bed's, lake creatures and aliens, spiders and werewolves; things like that don't just exist inside of television and movie screens. No, those things… _they're fucking real_.

_Hey, Sam I am! Come back here. I heard you like green eggs and ham!_

_Sam I am…Sam I am…Sam I am…_

_Come here…_

_Here…Sam I am._

_SAM I AM AND PENNYWISE, ain't that right Sammy boy!_

Sam shudders and feels his fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. The sun in the sky isn't quite so bright anymore…if only he could disappear.

"I need a favor from you Sam. I think you know what it is."

"I think I do too."

"Will I be seeing you?" There's a long pause along the line and Sam clenches his jaw as he shakily nods his head. He could really use a line right now more than anything else, he feels like he might be suffocating.

"Yes. You will." He croaks it out, but Matt hears him. And a few moments later when the line clicks off and Sam's Bluetooth stops crackling in his ear he just lets the panic settle in. And his eyes flash as he digs into his pockets and into the zippers of his leather jacket manically. He finds what he's looking for and sighs in relief when he pulls out the emergency stash of powder that he keeps inside one of his old rings. He brings it to his nose and huffs on the inhale. And as the familiar haze of contentment settles around him…things don't seem quite so bad.

In fact…

They're looking up.

 

**_Mike Chang Learns A Lesson_ **

* * *

Michael John Quincy Chang watches out from beneath bespectacled brown eyes at the distracted classroom before him. He glances slowly from one wall to the other in a complete panorama—staring at the complete disarray that his eleventh grade physics class has become.

"Mr. Flynn, would you please cease to text in my classroom." It isn't a question, but an expected demand. It's not Mike's fault that he's only met with a smirk and a nonchalant shrug of adolescent shoulders. He sighs and looks up again at his students in all of their unspectacular glory. He sees Amanda Greene in the back filing her nails, to her far right sits Eric Howe, who seems to have his iPod headphones on. Jennifer Reeves plays some game on her phone in the front row. And in all of this cacophony, what Mike Chang concludes…is that he is spectacularly unhappy.

Teaching was never a necessary evil for him per se. It had always been dance. His family bolted out of Lima when he was fourteen, moving the family to Connecticut. And his life of success and happiness never failed to flash before his eyes. He's learned not to dwell on the dreams of his youth since then. He successfully made it into a performing arts school – Julliard. He was going places, making something of himself, proving everyone else wrong. He had offers and plans to join some of the largest contemporary studios and dance troupes in the country…. in the _world_ by his second year. He was going to make it.

Until a motorcycle accident took that away from him on the day after his twentieth birthday, on a turnpike just outside of Trenton.

A torn anterior cruciate ligament, and an obliterated medial collateral ligament, among other things – he just couldn't dance anymore, not with a partial knee replacement. Not like that.

And by the time Mike Chang turned twenty-two, and was mostly rehabilitated, he finally closed the door on his adolescent dreams, and waved goodbye to a future that simply wasn't there for him anymore. He applied to City College, took online courses during his recovery months. And by the time he turned twenty-five, he found himself at the University of Michigan, on his way toward a Master in Secondary Teacher Education.

He just wasn't happy anymore. Ever since he gave it all away for black ice, and a slightly tipsy soccer mom who didn't see him pull into her lane through a broken taillight, and foggy dollar store glasses. He should blame her, people told him he should – but he's never been able to bring himself down to that level. Instead he stares out at his eleventh grade physics 1 class with a sad indifference, and exhales deeply. All of these children, with their dreams and their parents, and their _futures_ …reminding him of all of the things he never attained for himself.

"Kiss my ball-sack." Mike nods his head at Wyatt Flynn, the boy towards the back of the room in an over-sized Nirvana sweatshirt. His hair is still in cowlicks, and if it weren't for the beginnings of slight facial hair on his weak chin, he would still look the portrait of pre-pubescence. These kids are only _seventeen_ …and they have no idea, how the world is already plotting to kick them all in the ass.

A few of Flynn's classmates snicker, iPod kid takes off his headphones. And Mike stands at the foot of the room, with a blue EXPO dry-erase marker in one of his hands, and he smiles. He smiles so wide that his cheeks hurt, and he can feel curious and oddly intrigued eyes passing between this unwarranted standoff. Mr. Flynn ignores the challenge and sinks back into his phone, a smirk crawling on his face amidst his quiet resistance— his fingers tapping out on the keyboard, the _clicks_ audible in the silent room.

"Mr. Flynn, I've already asked you once." Another smile, a few snickers and laughs. The girl in the front seat stops her game and pockets her phone, joining in on the spectatorship that this is undoubtedly becoming. Mike can feel his forehead throbbing; he feels the muscles underneath his blazer and tie flexing, still ingrained with the need to move. His white knuckles clench the marker in his hand, and when he hears the sounds of the keyboard ringing into his eardrums, he's finally had enough of their bullshit. He's finally had enough of everything.

Wyatt Flynn flinches and shrieks when something sails through the air, colliding with his nose. It leaves a scratch that's already bleeding, and when he looks down he sees a blue EXPO marker rolling around by the heels of his feet.

"What the fuck!" He yells. Mike smiles again, his chest rising and falling. _He seems to have acquired their attention now._

And before he can stop himself, he feels it like a virus in his bones…the need, the primal urge to prove all of them wrong. To show them that he means something, that he isn't just some loser physics teacher in god-knows-where Connecticut. His arms wave before he even understands what he's done. Muscle memory. All of those years of training, not forgotten as he strobes his upper body to dance beats and rhythms in his head; iPod boy turns on his camera feature.

His arms and shoulders bounce fluidly, and he moves like liquid. He wraps his tie around his head in a swift motion and spins on his heels in four full revolutions before stopping with his toes perched on the ground. His feet glide beneath him into a moonwalk, and within seconds…he has them. He really does – and he remembers what it was like to be this happy.

He jumps into the air and kicks out, landing perfectly before his arms push out from his torso onto the front row table. He props himself up by sheer upper-body strength into a BBoy pose, wind-milling his legs wildly around him. The students cheer and yell, a few in the back start an impromptu beat-box as a backing rhythm. He has them captivated, and listening…and he knows that he's making a difference for at least one of them. It's more than he could have said for his life here before. Spurned on by a rush of adrenaline he climbs the table and air walks across it with refined finesse as a hand runs through his short black hair. And as he reaches the end of the table, he looks up and sees Wyatt Flynn staring wide-eyed. And he smirks, because this is one thing that Mr. Flynn could never disengage from, this is one thing that Wyatt Flynn could never taunt him for. And just as he makes the split second decision, he closes his eyes to a millisecond of bliss, as he kicks out from the table and soars backwards into the air. He can feel his sleek body, and he concentrates on it as he back-flips off of the table – it's his grand finale – to end this with a tuck into a full split.

But once his feet connect with the cool linoleum, he feels a jolt ring up through his spine as he lands on the wrong footing. He falls into a split regardless, as he hears an unmistakable pop from his busted knee. And as he falls to the ground clutching his leg, red-faced and in tremendous pain…he realizes that no…there was never going to be a second chance for him. He sees the students all rise out of their chairs to get a better look at their broken Physics teacher, and he hangs his head, already seeing that someone has had the wherewithal to call the nurse.

And forty minutes later, as he sits in an ambulance, he closes his eyes to the realization of what his life has become.

"So what's the story Mr. – Chang? Was that your way of trying to be cool? Trying to relate?" The paramedic isn't outright laughing at him, but he can hear the inflection in his tone of voice. He decides to shrug his shoulders noncommittally – this stupid paramedic could never understand anyway.

"Well speak to me or not – it looks like you'll be out of commission for a bit. From what I've assessed you might be looking at a torn ACL. Your knee's pretty week. You shouldn't have been dancing on it at all." And just as Mike is about to tune out the entire world, he hears his cellphone vibrating against his thigh in his pocket. He reaches for it, and fishes it out – noticing the Private number before grimacing at the pain in his knee as the ambulance pushes through a pothole.

"Sssss - shit. Who's this?" Mike has to bite his lip as they bump along, turning toward Hartford Hospital no doubt.

"Matt. _Matt Rutherford_."

"Matt…Rutherford?" Mike cringes. He knows that name, something about it rings so many bells in his already pain addled brain, and he works the cogs quickly as they hit a series of stoplights.

"Yep, in the flesh. It's been a while Chang. I almost miss those dance battles we used to have by the old fort." And suddenly Mike can feel it all coming back to him. It physically hurts, the assault. And he almost wishes his knee were more fucked up had he known he would have received this call – maybe then, this wouldn't hurt so much.

"Why are you calling me." Mike realizes that this really isn't a question, but more of a chilled statement as he stares through the paramedic that hasn't seemed to stop laughing at him internally. He closes his eyes again, but all he can see are images of Lima, Ohio – a town his family left far, far behind. And he sees things that terrified him in the dark as a kid. Things that made him afraid to wake up in the morning— things that make his blood run cold.

_"Hiya Chink."_

_"You're such a FOB, chickenshit!"_

_"We're gonna fuck you up, chink…we're gonna make you wish you had never_

_been born you cocksucker!"_

Mike clenches his teeth, biting his tongue and drawing blood.

"Mike…I had to. I have no choice…we promised each other." And Mike nods as he struggles to catch his breath, his white knuckles clutching at his bad knee as his lungs squeeze the life out of his chest.

"I-didn't, I don't –"

"We've all done things we aren't proud of Mike, giving up dancing was yours…but this is more than that…we're all fucked up. We're in this together …or not at all." And Mike has the gall to throw something, to watch all of the tools and instruments clang and shatter all over this cramped ambulance in a show of his immediate and impending desperation. But he knows…as clear as day. Just as he knew then, when he felt the wheels of his Kawasaki fly from underneath him, and his knee hit the pavement so unnaturally – that the future as he knows it…is nearly all but gone. And so he grits his teeth and nods his head, acquiescing to a fear he had hoped he'd never have to relive again, and headed to meet people that he had hoped would have forgotten much like he had. But for Michael Chang, the future has never been so kind.

"Sure. I-I'll make it. I'll be a cripple and not of much help…but I'll be there." He hangs up the phone quietly, and re-pockets it. And with that he says goodbye to the life he's constructed. He sees it all, the tenure, the teaching job, the empty nights alone with glasses of wine and boxed _Stauffer_ Lasagna. This life was never meant for him, he was always destined for…so much more – he just never thought that it would come at such a fucking price.

By the time the ambulance pulls up to the hospital, and they cart him up through emergency, he already knows the course of action that he must take. He stares the doctor in the eye after an MRI, and nods when he sees the evidence of his most recent tear. He nods when they schedule him for surgery, he grunts when they tell him that he'll never run or play physical sports again. And then he laughs at that irony…because where he's going – he'll be running for sure, from things far scarier and much more painful than torn ACL's and ruptured ligaments. And as they dope him up with morphine as he rests, he has the coherency to call his superior at the high school – and with a slightly slurred speech and glassy eyes; he smiles into the receiver as his voice echoes off of the white sterilized walls.

"I quit."

 

**_Quinn Fabray Takes A Life-Change_ **

* * *

Behind these pale walls is a woman with a complex.

A woman that is both tall and regal. With beautifully marred hazel eyes and rose-tinted lips. Her cheekbones are lithe and graceful, the angle of her jaw simple in it's symmetrical beauty. Her hair has lost the length of her younger years, opting instead to fall in short waves to barely scathe the fleeting cells of her neck and shoulders if she were to turn her head. A woman that seems to outwardly possess everything that one would simply dream of possibly attaining.

Quinn Fabray is gorgeous.

She is the embodiment of envy, and the rue of jealous fodder.

Because her life is perfect.

She is perfect – and perfection is worthy of envy. But – as perfection is impossible in worlds like these – as is the illusion of its merit. Quinn Elizabeth Fabray, more than anything else…is a woman haunted.

Like rolling waves on stormy oceans, or like valley rifts on the sea floor, Quinn Fabray's life has been nothing if not…difficult. She's worked hard for what she's become; she's worked hard for _years_. And while she stares into the pale walls of her terminal at JFK it's almost as if she can see the reflection of her unimportance mirrored to her from within the plaster. An airline attendant approaches cautiously, clearly rendered speechless by her lucky day's brush with fame and the likes of Hollywood Royalty – Quinn narrows her eyes, letting her lips purse as the hazel within churns deliciously.

"M-Mrs. Fabray?" The attendant is thin, and mousy, her DELTA airlines pin hangs off of her fitted button down shirt crookedly. Quinn spots her fingernails, and quirks an eyebrow at the chipped red lacquer. She doesn't acknowledge the woman with a response; she doesn't have time for pleasantries. When the attendant notices that she won't be getting an answer, she fumbles– rising the hazel waves in their ire, Quinn begins to tap her perfectly manicured short nails against her vintage Chanel purse.

_Tap, Tap, Tap_.

"Um…Mrs. Fabray, boarding for flight number 3211 for Los Angeles will commence in fifteen minutes. We will be escorting our Delta Sky Club Elite members to the terminal for early boarding." Quinn looks out at the fairly empty bar and lounge chairs around her. She nods her head, barely holding in a smile as the attendant releases a worried sigh of momentary reprieve. They follow through the airport in a cart; she has a hood on her head, and jeans on with sunglasses despite the indoor lighting. People don't recognize her in airports, they're usually too busy rushing to their own flights or looking for their lost children to pay people like her any attention. If she could stay this inconspicuous all the time…she would revel in the invisibility. She would thrive on it.

They arrive shortly, and after many fake smiles and wide berth's she is ushered onto the plane into first class. The curtains are drawn, and she sets down her belongings before pushing her headphones into her ears. And as the flight attendants flurry around her in their haste, she pays them no mind as the world around her fades into the background.

With the music thrumming in her ears, and her eyes closed, the time finally escapes her. And she lets the hum of the Airbus turbines lull her into her thoughts. She wavers just between that space of dreaming and wakefulness, and as her mind wanders as do her deep-seeded and forgotten imaginings. They always find her when she's in places like these, they come from the bottomless pits of her oldest fears, and they rock her bones with their rot and their stink. They bubble up in a white haze behind her eyelids as sleep swirls around her…

_"Samantha? I told you not to go too far away from the house. There are things out there, they'll hurt you." Quinn can feel her cast itching her skin and the images before her blur and swirl in a haze ephemerally. Samantha sits in front of her on the sidewalk, Tannie resting by her mary-jane clad feet. Her smile is bright, and the gap is still there where her "Grown-Up" teeth haven't yet materialized. Her pigtails fly in an invisible breeze while she laughs. It's a melodious thing, thick with happiness and wonderment._

_"I just want to play here for a little while…there's candy here!" Quinn smiles and leans down, joining her sister with a light step. She can smell it down here from the sidewalk, and she turns her head in the fog, seeing an empty drain just a few feet away down the chalk-adorned curb. She furrows her eyebrows, her hazel eyes swimming._

_"Sam, I don't know…"_

_"But you love candy Quinn, it'll make your arm feel loads better!" Quinn smiles but she knows it doesn't reach her eyes as she watches Samantha get up and run for the drain. The smell of candy and chocolate is thick in the air now and Quinn recoils from it, taking a moment to look down at her casted arm. It throbs painfully in her haze._

_"Sam, Mom's going to worry if we're gone too long."_

_"But there's Reese's down here, and Peanut M &M's…Rugrats popsicles with bubble gum eyes and Kettle Corn…even Snickers…" Quinn shakes her head, she gets up to grab for Sammie's polka-dot parka, clasping onto her arm to pull her away from the drain. She feels a cold shiver run down her spine as the fog around them deepens, casting them into a darkness she can't seem to escape from. Sammie's body disappears in the engulfment of black, and she can no longer see. The small arm in her hand loosens, and suddenly it feels as if Samantha is miles and miles away._

_"You like candy Quinn."_

_"Sammie? Where'd you go…" She walks a step and her foot trips on something hard and rigid beneath her. She opens her clenched eyes to see that she's tripped over the murky drain – for some reason she can see it clearly now in the darkness, as if illuminated. And she struggles to regain her footing…she doesn't like the drain._

_"Quinn! I'm right here!" Sammie's voice, chipper and deep with a tone alien in its delivery emanates from the drain's watery and deep depths. Quinn's head turns sharply to stare down into the graying abyss._

_"Sam?"_

_"I'm down here Quinn! Eating Chocolate with Pennywise! Come join us!" Quinn swallows and can almost feel the plaster of her cast growing soggy from the drain's overflow. She shakes her head as her eyes begin to water, dinner is nearly ready she's sure of it, and they can't be late._

_"Sam…please come out of there, it's time to go home." And as Quinn reaches a hand out to look through the water's deep and dark waves, she sees a picture of a clown with glowing yellow eyes reflecting against the water terrifyingly. His smile is warped and his teeth sharpened like blades. In one hand he holds Tannie Barbie, in the other a flock of purple balloons. And just as Quinn is about to scream, he vanishes…and suddenly there's Samantha; her reflection showing in its place._

_"Did you meet Pennywise, he think's you'd love it down here…he thinks you'd float." Quinn shakes her head vehemently, letting the tears flow freely from her muddied lashes. And suddenly there she is, emerging from the water, Samantha Fabray. And Quinn sighs at the sight, at the possibility of an escape. She reaches out her hands just as a pigtail crests at the surface, and suddenly as her face lies inches away from her sister's, she watches in horror as those pigtails fall away. As the small face splits into a too-wide grin with devil's teeth and a missing nose. She screams as the flesh on once immaculate skin falls away to show the decayed remains and graying muscle and fat beneath. The eyes dissolve into desolate slits, and flies…they crawl from the crevasses in fleets and drones. And Quinn screams as a small rotting hand grabs her casted arm from beneath the water. The voice eerily chipper for the putridity that laces it._

_"We're coming for you Quinn…"_

_"Finally, you'll float to. You'll float with us."_

Her eyes jut open as her body flinches forward. She looks around to see her tray table up and all of her belongings where she'd left them. The man sitting across from her sleeps with a quiet hum, and Quinn pulls at her eyes, finding tears streaking her reddened cheeks. Her heart beats painfully fast, the images still chasing her in her wakefulness as she struggles to find purchase on her reality. She's had this dream before, since she can remember…of Samantha, and drains and terrifying clowns. And she knows that she should probably get help. But in all of the years of family therapy after _her_ death, she's never felt compelled to bring them up. Because what would they think? What would they say?

They would have probably medicated her for depression and put her on Zoloft, and called her "troubled," way back when. And so instead, Quinn lives with these dreams sometimes. The same one, almost once a month now, they've grown in frequency again. She used to have them every night as a kid, and as she grew older and made a life for herself in Palo Alto, California the dreams faded to almost nothing. But in the last weeks, they've come back with a vengeance, and for Quinn Fabray…that thought alone is all but terrifying.

"Hello! This is Captain Wilke, we are currently at an altitude of 55,000 feet. We will now be making our final decent into Los Angeles. Current temperature in Los Angeles, is seventy-six and sunny. Thank you for choosing Delta."

_Six hours!_

_Has she really been out for six hours?_

The hazel within Quinn's irises dim as she adjusts to her current wakefulness. A stewardess arrives suddenly to ask her to lift her tray table. She flinches at the unwelcome jolt and grimaces weakly before turning her head to stare out of the window. By the time they're landed she can feel eyes on her as her fellow passengers take privy effect of exactly who has joined them on this aircraft. She passes off a surly look and remains unbothered as she makes her way outside of the cabin door. A cart waits for her, and she's escorted to baggage claim. By the time she arrives there are already photographers and paparazzi waiting for her curbside. Their flashes are no less blinding from behind paned glass. Her phone vibrates at her clad hip and she retrieves it, seeing the flurry of business messages and calls that she's missed while in the air. She flicks through them meticulously, one by one…until finally she settles on a number that she doesn't recognize. It's a New York number, and Quinn is immediately intrigued. Her finger swipes at the touchscreen, opening the message for her inquisitive perusal.

**FROM: (917) 452-1118**

> Quinn,

> I don't know if you remember me. But I'd like to catch up if you

> have any availability in the near future. I have a feeling we might be

> seeing more of each other very soon.

> Give me a call.

> xo, Rachel Barbra Berry

Oh God.

Holy Fuck.

Her fingers tremble as she reads through the message over and over. Her fragile memory raking through the files of her childhood, through Sammie and her parents- who just drowned themselves in wine and sorrow afterward. She rifles through books and books of information that she's kept locked and shelved away over the years – of Lima. Of Midwestern haunts and small-town fairs, summer water fights during the good years, and morbid floods during the bad. She remembers leaving Lima in the spring of '95. Memories of packed cars, and empty UHAULS travelling cross country in a means of an escape. She remembers seeing the wide palm trees of Northern California and sighing at the sunlight, feeling as though perhaps here…things would be different.

They never were. She found herself living alone with absentee parents who worked and drank themselves into stupors. She lived in a home where every photo of her sister was either turned down or locked into a cobb-webbed covered basement. In a home that wasn't really a home at all. It's miraculous that she's come so far despite her failings. She left Palo Alto as soon as her feet could rid themselves of the illuminated pavement, leaving her parents behind to fend for themselves while she made a new life in New Haven, at the Yale School of Drama. By twenty-three she was back in California, living in a seedy apartment outside of Calabasas. And by twenty-five, she nailed the breakthrough role of a lifetime, starring opposite Raleigh Dunn in a small independent film about teens and alcoholism, about failure. She related to the script so well, it was as if she weren't acting at all.

And as the years have dragged on, Quinn hasn't looked back, not when her father passed away from psoriasis of the liver…and not when her mother crashed herself into a tree off of the 5, totaling her car and turning her into an invalid in the process – her blood alcohol had been at a staggering .19. Quinn didn't have the heart to feel pain over that particular situation…she just tucked it all away into the vault of memories that have followed her ever since Lima. And so it is with wide eyes that she stares down into the beacon of her past. Into bright hazelnut eyes that have always grounded her, despite the madness – she remembers reading the name earlier that morning, seeing familiar flashes of brown hair flash before her as her tongue tripped over the words.

_Rachel Berry_.

It took everything that she had to keep her composure on the telecast, acting skills be damned. And now as she stares at an opening into a life she's all but tried to forget, she can't help but feel the nagging sensation of something else settle deep into her frame. Why is Rachel texting her now? Why is Rachel texting her at all?

And like a premonition of foreshadowing nature, she feels the buzzing of her cellphone in her pale hand. She sees the PRIVATE printed atop the screen, and as she swipes her thumb across the glass, an ominous feeling of dread settles her. In the background, the baggage carousel beeps to life.

"Hello?" The bags begin to fall from the center ramp in heaps and bounces, scuffing along the metal railings.

"Quinn. I have this odd feeling, that you already knew I would call." Quinn's face pales, she turns her head to look around her and remembers the flashes going off from behind large EXIT windows. She tries to hide the flurry of emotions that are currently eclipsing her delicate features.

"Matthew?" Her voice is a whisper, and as she expels those two heavy syllables, the deluge of grief and fear is heavy and thick like mud. It cascades around her, engulfing her within its waterfall of melancholy. Samantha, Pennywise, The Fort behind Carroll Farm, The Sewers…Sam, Britt, San, Puck, Finn, Kurt, Arthur, Tina, Mercedes, Mike, and….Rachel. Everything seems to have finally come full circle.

"What we thought we killed on a cold afternoon twenty-five years ago… _IT's back_." And the fear is evident in Mike's hushed tones, and all that Quinn can do is fake a smile as her world crumbles before her eyes. She sees them all, their gang of misfits, struggling with death in the throes of childhood – trying to save a world that didn't believe it needed saving. And for Quinn, it was always _her_. A little girl in polka dot wellies and a lady bug parka, running out to play in the aftermath of a storm. Her hands electric with happiness, and the promises of a future that never came. Quinn remembers her face like it was only yesterday, her sister who was cheated by _IT_ …A redemption that has never truly come. And she knows that she has to go back. She knows that she has no other choice.

"Will everyone be there?" Matt is sure and calm over the line, he's always been their steady rock, even in times of complete madness, even as kids. She's always respected him for that, and she realizes now that he must have stayed behind. A martyr for the evil that hasn't evaporated, a martyr for Samantha and all of the children that she exemplifies; left to rot beside the piercing body of a smiling clown.

"Yes. Everyone. They're coming." She knows that Matt is holding something back, but she chooses not to dwell on it. Instead calming herself with the steady beeping of the carousel. She sees her bags come off of the line, and an attendant is already there to grab them for her.

"Okay… I'll be there as fast as I can, and Matt?"

"Yes, Quinn?"

"Watch out for them, will you?" And she hears his affirmation. The line cuts off just as she makes her way to the large exit doors of LAX and into a stampede of shouts and flashbulbs, of yells and distractions. She is tired, and her eyes are wild with fear as she makes her way past, she's sure that their photos will show this clearly across her face tomorrow morning– and they'll blame this on a recent split or a failed audition for a serious role. And none of them will even bat an eye at the storm brewing in Lima, Ohio…none of them will even care.

She bustles herself into a black Escalade and someone shuts the door. And forty minutes later she finds herself pulling up to her flat. A rustic gated house on the outskirts of Los Feliz. It is quaint but easily not cheap, simple in it's furnishing and architecture – perhaps Quinn knew when she bought it, that she would never stay for long. Walking through the long foyer and empty hallway, she drops her bags to the tiled floor and pales when she sees her. Laying down on the large wrap around black sofa with an open bottle of wine in the decanter and two glasses set aside, one already mostly gone. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls over the armrest as she sleeps, her cheeks rosy and pale in the moonlight that streams in from the back-patio doors. As Quinn drops her luggage, she cringes as she watches her girlfriend stir – her green eyes opening with a sleepy start to land happily on Quinn who still stands uneasily in the doorway.

"Hi baby. How was your trip?" Quinn goes to take a step forward but tilts unsteadily, her girlfriend rushes up on thin legs to catch her – wrapping her arms around Quinn's slender waist.

"That bad, huh?" Quinn fakes a laugh and grimaces an exhale as she disconnects their bodies to sink against the adjacent wall. Her barely contained emotions finally coming out to show themselves – battling with her resolve.

Her name is Lila Connor, the girl that has currently sunken to rest with her against the wall. And in all of the ways that one girl can be perfect, Lila embodies all of those qualities. She's beautiful with vivid green eyes and pale skin, strawberry red hair draped over her shoulders. She's on television, the new FOX comedy "Book Club" to be exact, and if the public knew of their budding romance, they would no doubt be on the front page of every magazine across the world. If those magazines had known of the stunning engagement ring currently hidden in the upstairs office cupboard, they would certainly keel over from the shock. But as it were – Quinn sits here thinking of her present life, and all she realizes, is that nothing fits. Not since New York. Not this house, not her career…and not Lila.

"I have to leave for a bit, Liles." The taller girl furrows her eyebrows once, twice.

"Is it for a new movie?"

Quinn chuckles hollowly, the tone causing Lila to flinch away for a moment, suddenly scared for no reason whatsoever…there was just something about that sound…something dark, and unnatural.

"No…I – I got a phone call on the way home from the airport, from an old friend. I have to go back home and settle some things."

"Oh, back to Palo Alto? I can come with you bab –"

"No…Ohio."

"Ohio? But I thought you grew up in Palo Alto?" Quinn shakes her head and really takes notice for once at all of the ways in which her life has shifted into the territory of false reality. She brings up a palm to rub at her weary eyes and that's when she sees them…the scars…deep and red, like fresh wounds against the white of her hand. Her eyes widen in shock.

_The scars…they're back._

She shifts her wrist, and feels it lock against the motion, and the bulge on the inside of her wrist, the bone that never completely healed is there again, mocking her. She had forgotten about that…

_I had a cast too? I thought that was only in my dreams._

"Baby you're scaring me..."

Quinn stares up again, this time with a hardness to her eyes and a coldness to her tone, an ode to the leadership role she used to claim so easily in her youth.

"Did I ever tell you about my little sister, Samantha?" Lila shakes her head, clearly baffled.

"She was murdered right before my tenth birthday." Lila's face falls into a gasp as she clutches for her mouth, covering it in a silent plea. Her eyes are wide and they hold so much sympathy that Quinn honestly does not need or care for.

"Who w-would do such a thing?" And Quinn has the gall to smile as she sees the clear image of a grinning clown flash before her eyelids.

"The real question Liles, is not who…but… what?" And as the words process behind Lila's pale skull, Quinn lets herself rise off of the ground. She finds herself grabbing for her suitcase, and only replacing some of the clothes for others in a quick flurry. Lila walks behind her in a daze, and within twenty minutes – Quinn finds herself face to face with a familiar black Escalade. The tires squelch in the gravel pavement of her driveway.

"When will you be back, sweetie?" Lila's voice is scared and broken, if only she knew how Quinn felt. And Quinn smiles, ruefully – the evil of Lima lurking not far from the surface of bold hazel.

"I don't know." And with the slam of a door, and the crunching of tires she sees herself in the rearview mirror – heading back to LAX. She sees her phone in her lap and remembers a certain message that she received just moments before her phone call from Matt… _Rachel_. And she pulls it up to her face, to type out a responding message in the night.

**FROM: (310) 672-4290**

> Rachel,

> I got the call. We have much to discuss.

> I'll see you soon… please be safe.

> Quinn

And as the message disappears into the flurry of satellite transmissions that compose our modern day cellular database – Quinn bides her time by staring out into a vast nighttime view of Los Angeles as it passes by in a blur. The lights and darkness distorting into a flurry of shapes and images before her eyes; they stop at a red light and Quinn turns her gaze to an empty sidewalk, where alone…rests a drain.

And she recoils…thinking that for once,

She may not be quite so brave.

Maybe this time…

IT will win.


	4. Lima: The First Parallel

# PART TWO: JUNE OF 1994

## CHAPTER FOUR:

### LIMA: THE FIRST PARALLEL

 

_These references below are a series of journal entries drawn from Lima: An Unpublished Town Historical Journey by, a Mr. Matt Rutherford. These entries were found in the archives of the Lima Public Library: Shawnee Main Branch. An accompanying layer of manuscripts was also found, the work within referring back to itself as Lima: Hell's Back Door Re-Opened._

_A number of accompanying Xeroxed manuscripts from a similar working title were also found, written by a Mr. Mike Hanlon. These are the findings._

* * *

February 3rd, 2018

Can an entire city be _haunted?_

Not just like in a scary movie, but really haunted. Every building seeping with it, the ice cream trucks, the park on Meyer Road, the Libraries. Everything. Can something like this really happen twice?

Looking through the notes of a man that I myself have not come to know, I've discovered similarities in his manuscripts and journals. A trip to Derry, ME for answers in my adulthood that I simply could not fathom whilst still trapped in Lima. The words in italics here are his, and his alone:

_"Haunting: 'Persistently recurring to the mind; difficult to forget' Ditto Funk and Friend._

_To Haunt: 'To appear or recur often, especially as a ghost.' But – and listen! – 'A place often visited': resort, den, hangout…_

_And one more. This one, like the last, is a definition of haunt as a noun, and it's the one that really scares me: **'A feeding place for animals.'** "_

The bold in the italics is of course my own highlights within Hanlon's original manuscripts. But something there struck a chord… "A feeding place for animals." Like the werewolves and bats that chased us so long ago now? Like the animals that ate away noses and ears and limbs from the bodies of the children that have so far been found? Animals.

_"What's feeding in Derry? What's feeding on Derry?"_

That's a good question Mr. Hanlon, because if I had my wits about me…I'd be asking the same exact thing here in this little town of Lima. And why won't whatever this thing is…why won't it ever be sated? Why did it come? It's interesting how scared I've grown to become in my middle-age. I'm barely thirty-five and can already lose count of the gray hairs lacing my scalp and chin stubble, my mustache should I choose to grow it out. I'm always scared nowadays it seems, and I can't help but wonder if people can tell, if they've noticed? Perhaps not, I've always been rather reserved I suppose. It's almost like I'm living in a dream, cataloging death like an undertaker, and running from things that have no business being here at all. It wasn't until the death of the Kilger boy on Rockateer Bridge that I realized the gravity of my situation…of Lima's situation.

It was like a dream, waking up and reading the _Lima Chronicle_ , of having that feeling in my bones despite gaps in the news reports. The idea that the clown that killed Samantha Fabray twenty-five years ago…could possibly be back. My duties here in Lima, as an archivist at City Hall have led me to some interesting discoveries, and perhaps it was never Freddie Kilger's death that led me onto the path…I think this began some years ago, like a fire blazing deep within my bones.

Maybe it was _The Turtle_ …it always seems to be the turtle.

Five years ago I began this archival journey. Scouring through the city archives, and spending weeks and months in between laborious hours at work drawing parallels to a small town in Maine, that now seems to shake my dreams. A small town called _Derry_. The internet is a wonderful place, and what I've learned, by perusing online archival databases, is that our fear, this place – is not alone, it is a deep seeded haunting that has simply relocated for means unknown. I spent hours in old books and databases cataloguing horrors and events that still haunt me in my sleep. Of things in Derry, Maine that have only seemed to triple their efforts here in Lima.

Of deaths and murders…. haunts and fears…clowns with rotting teeth, perhaps?

There is a part of me that can relate to Mike Hanlon's manuscripts, perhaps we have more in common than necessary – perhaps that isn't a coincidence at all. And it is with a heavy head that I have come to pause at a decision. A part of me wants to make these phone calls – a part of me realizes that it needs to be done. The turtle always being my voice of reason in the difficult times… Quinn Fabray, where she here, would urge me onto the phone, urge my fears to still. But can I hold that responsibility? Of reminding them all of something so foul, so dank, so haunting that it could kill them to learn the truth? Could the thing that killed Samantha Fabray on that cold wet afternoon of 1993 really be what killed Freddie Kilger at the bank of Rockateer Bridge?

Yes.

But I wait; I wait long days and weeks, as the death toll rises. A slow burn as it begins its feeding. I need to gain my bearings before those calls can be made. I need to build up my own resolve. It is with sleepless nights and a beating heart that I live my days now. In worry and in jolts, my cell phone resting in my palm, urging me everyday to make the first one. But God, will they even survive it? Kurt always seemed like the most emotionally burdened, maybe even Tina…Artie perhaps? Their lives will crumble and fall into a myriad of puzzle pieces once my voice pierces through them – relaying the haunting that has for so long plagued me. There is a death toll hanging over all of our heads – the reaper waits for us as we live our lives straddling the thin balance.

I think over and over that maybe I won't have to do it. Maybe I won't have to make the phone calls at all. Perhaps it was all simply coincidence.

 _Coincidence_. That's a funny word.

But then there was Devon Sawyer, and the trail of blood to a clogged bathroom drain. Or Mia Wittier, who disappeared from the Middle School. Since then there have been over ten others. _Ten_. All between the ages of two and fourteen, all dead…but not all of them found. And it is with this knowledge that I can no longer wait, biding my time. It is with this, that I pull out my old address book, and stare into the keypad of my private cell phone, and begin typing out numbers onto the old keys, waiting for an absolution.

And here I am, writing this journal in order to make sense of my musings, my findings, my thoughts. All of the ambiguities of this haunting muddled together into something far from nonsensical.

And so, in between my calls and my dying time, I've begun to piece together a story. Because you can't not start a story anywhere else than from the beginning,

_"To know what a place is, I really do believe one has to know what it was."_

And that is where I began, with Mike Hanlon's records, and his beginning into the foray of a Derry town history. He began with the old timers – the men and women who've seen things. And as I read, I learned that things in Derry, had been bad for a very long time. 1906. 1879, 1851, 1958 all of these years having far too many things in common. A town that small having much too high a death rate – a cycle that eclipses itself anew every twenty-five to twenty-seven years or so…

A cycle that ended in 1985 for the townspeople of Derry…only to resurrect itself almost ten years later in Lima. A cycle that is only just beginning…

In 1993/1994 a staggering total of twenty-seven children within Shawnee Township had gone missing – and no one said a thing, as haunts unseen settled deep within the roots of our poisoned town. No one batted an eye as our group of thirteen waged war beneath the foundations…seeking out the root of evil that had consumed us. And thinking about all of this now, I really don't want to have to make these damn phone calls. They will all drop like flies at the truth – because the truth is a scary thing. Haunting within it's own twisted right.

And so here I sit, at my dusty old archival desk with twelve phone numbers in my hand, and a few pre-paid calling cards. And I wonder silently as I begin to press the buttons to a Mr. Abrams in St. Louis, Missouri…if we will even come back this time around?

Would we even survive?

And as my finger taps out onto the keys, I pray that he won't pick up. I pray that none of them answer. But as the line cuts on and I hear his voice for the first time in twenty-five years, I know that this is real.

I know that some if not all of us won't even make it back alive.

And please, God…

Please God, have mercy.


	5. Finn Hudson Takes A Beating

# PART TWO: JUNE OF 1994

## CHAPTER FIVE:

### FINN HUDSON TAKES A BEATING

 

_Just cresting past 12:32am on American Airlines flight 261 to Dayton, Ohio, Mary Little – a portly thing of a stewardess – moves to check up on one of her passengers. He sits in a first class seat, although his attire differs substantially from the business class passengers surrounding him. His jeans are dirty and caked with mud – he smells like…manure for goodness sake. And the Cleveland Browns baseball cap he wears falls solemnly around his boyish face. The five o'clock shadow on his chin giving him an air of manly charm despite his appearance. He is everything if not handsome, she thinks as she approaches. She's watched him sit here for quite some time, eyes open but unseeing. She's been the one to charge his credit card for little miniature bottles of Whiskey and Gin – at least five of them litter his tray table. But he continues to sit, almost unblinking as the night eclipses him through the side window._

_"Sir? Did you need anything else, tonight?" She watches warily as he turns his head. She can count the freckles gracing his cheeks, and she spots the beginnings of a sun burn along the tip of his nose. He smiles at her lazily, a slow thing, and she blushes under his glance._

_"No, thank you ma'am. I think I'm all set." She nods, turning around. But not before chancing another backwards glance at him seated there. She watches his smile fall, and the blank expression return to his face. And all of a sudden he doesn't look quite so handsome anymore, she thinks. In fact – he looks all but haunted. And before she can dwell on the curiosities of the man sitting in 2B, a series of tilts and shifts rock her body around the aisle of the cabin. Captain Ford's voice eclipsing the sleeping passengers over the intercom…_

_"Looks like we've hit a pretty bad pocket just here over Gary, Indiana. Please remain in your seats, the seatbelt sign is coming on." Mary looks around and smiles at the flurry of unsteady glances thrown her way. She tries to quell them with a happy smile just as she feels the plane dip. She closes her eyes, knowing that this flight will no longer be an easy one. Somewhere nearby a toddler begins a steady wail, rhythmically exalting its cries as the plane dips and bends with turbulence. She moves unsteadily back to the front of the cabin, where first class is and takes a seat in the flight attendant seating, fastening her seatbelt. Sue sits next to her, popping a piece of mint gum around in her mouth._

_"Looks like this just turned into a disaster." Mary nods her head before glancing back up at the man in 2B, a hollow smile twisting his lips. Yep, she's positive that he looks down right creepynow, sitting there like that._

_"What do you think 's up with him, Sue?" She points to the baseball capped man with a steady frown on her face as the plane shudders in the night._

_"Got me. He looks pretty fucked up though, doesn't he?" Mary nods, not quite sure if that's even the tip of the iceberg. "Yea Sue, perhaps."_

_Finn Hudson leans his head back in the dim lighting of the plane. He can feel the eyes of that inquisitive stewardess still following him, but he has no reason to care. He lets the idea of sleep entertain him despite its impossibility. And as the plane rockets and shudders around them, he hums his eyes to a close – envisioning his destination, and the inevitable end he is to find there. As his eyes close to the darkness, he lets the fear consume him – it's almost peaceful being this receptive to its advances. And his mind whirs as his eyes droop beneath his eyelids. He can hear the steady beeping of the engine lights outside on the wing tips, and he settles into that constant reassurance. His mind finally stops buzzing, as he is eclipsed within a haze. A dream perhaps…to finally quell his real-time horrors. And the beeping continues, steady and sure._

_Beep._

_Beeep._

_Beeeep._

_Turning into a steady ringing in his ears. And suddenly it's a bell – a steady, shrill thing, piercing his subconscious as he drifts off – a bell._

_It's loud, almost too loud._

_It rings with a familiar cacophony, and it reminds him of Lima._

_Brrr-riiiiiiiiiingggg!_

_And school is,_

_Finally…_

* * *

Out.

_Brrrr-rinnnnnnngggg!_

The bell is the signal for all things joyous at Lima Elementary. Signaling the end of another school year, another year gone by with not much to show for it so far. Lima Elementary School sits right on the main drag off of Ellswater, just in between Kroger and Lorraine Middle School off of Townley. Finn Patrick Hudson sits beside his wooden desk, staring at the crude drawings etched into the grain with pens, pencils – perhaps, sometimes knives. He smiles as the bell rings shrilly throughout Mrs. Geller's stuffy old classroom. He had been spending his last few minutes as a fifth grader, listening silently to a conversation being had by Amanda Keeler seated a seat over. Having been so engrossed in her conversation with Emma Hardwick, that she hadn't even realized his interest.

"I'm going with my parents to Hawaii this summer! What about you Ems?" Amanda is nothing if not conceited in her wealth. Her family owns the local chain of video rental stores, and she spares no moment without rubbing her wealth into the burning skin of her peers. Emma, in return smiles weakly, twirling a chewed up pencil around one of her fingers.

"Oh, I don't know Mandy, I think I'm just going to Charlotte to visit my granny and grandpa for the summer." Amanda nods knowingly, giving Emma a look of sheer ten-year old sympathy.

"Oh, well. I'll be sure to send a postcard from Honolulu." Emma smiles and nods excitedly, the two of them falling into more chatter. And it's at this moment that Finn notices Rachel Berry, sitting just out of earshot, drawing stars into her notebook at her desk. "What about you Rachel? Going anywhere this summer?" Finn watches Rachel look up, rather perplexed at the direct addressing to her person. She's a loner much like some of the other kids here at Lima Elementary – she's beautiful, yes – with flowing brown hair and pretty bows. She wears scuffed Mary-Jane's and knee-socks with a pair of jean shorts. A collared button down short sleeve shirt adorns her torso, tucked into her waist in place of her usual sweaters. The weather has changed though, and with the sun – comes the wardrobe change perhaps. Finn watches her with a faint blush as she raises her deep brown eyes to answer curiously.

"No." Emma gives Rachel a confusing glare. Amanda scrunches her eyebrows and her top lip into something far from aesthetically pleasing, Finn thinks.

"What do you mean? Everyone who's _someone_ has plans for the summer, Berry." Amanda's words have an air of mocking to them; Emma Hardwick sinks into her seat. Rachel blinks owlishly and shrugs her shoulders, her pretty hair bow bobbing around her ponytail.

"My daddies don't typically have me visit our relatives because they don't really care for our current living situation. My daddies also work, so no…I don't have any plans. I rather like the idea of maybe going swimming this summer though out by the river, and practicing scales of course." By the time Rachel finishes, she has a wide smile on her face at the thought. It quickly falls, however once it's met with the mocking laugh of Amanda Keeler's shrill voice. And suddenly Finn knows, that Rachel is regretting ever even opening her mouth, a frown playing on her lips. He watches as she sinks back to her notebook – to the solace of her gold stars. Finn has always liked Rachel Berry more than anyone else in Mrs. Geller's class. She's smart, intelligent, kind - and once he caught her humming the tune to "Islands in the Stream" by Dolly Parton over by the portables during recess…and wow, has she got a voice. He thinks she's magical, really – and Finn stares after her longingly, as she pays him absolutely no mind. He'll never deserve anyone as wonderful as Rachel Berry, never in a million years.

And all to quickly just to Finn's left, a sudden hard elbow juts out and into his portly gut, knocking him out of is gaze – the baby fat still jiggling with the inertia and the pain of the sudden assault. He looks up to see the pimpled face of David Karofsky boring into him, and he shudders.

"Hey fuck-twat. Give me the rest of your lunch money, turd." Finn holds back a grimace as he feels the last of his lunch money jingling in his jean pocket. He'd been saving it all day for an end of the year treat over at Mickey's Ice Cream Parlor – a banana sundae with whipped cream, $2.00 for the kid special – but now as he stares into the hard eyes of David Karofsky, he isn't so sure that he'll be making it today. David Karofsky, is twelve, having flunked the fifth grade and fourth grade over the years, he's managed to tower over everyone on the playground during recess. His hard face and thin brown hair framing his maniacal face – he's turned into something far worse than a bully for the children here – he and his cronies have turned into renditions of hatred and evil so vile, that even adults fear to cross their paths. And all Finn Hudson can do is shake his head, lying to the wide boy sitting next to him. Hoping that David won't smell the deceit on his skin.

"You're lying lard-brain!"

"No, I swear – I spent all my money on fruit roll-ups at the hot lunch line." And like a reprieve, Mrs. Geller's voice rings out through the classroom just before the final bell. "Alright class, settle down – you too David." And the elbows stop, and Finn can breath easy for just a few seconds. He chances another glance at Amanda and Emma, the two of them having a debate over which color Skip-It's they have. And directly behind them, still sits Rachel Berry, when he looks over at her he realizes that she's staring at him right back. He startles, and tries a shy smile – and like a miracle, she smiles in return. And Finn Hudson's last day of fifth grade isn't quite so bad.

_Brrr—riiinnnnng!_

The bell is like the calling for a stampede, as book bags and pencils fly up in a flurry. Finn grabs his backpack and his bag of classwork, accumulated over the year. He waves back after Mrs. Geller as he runs out of his classroom, out into the sunny Lima afternoon. A parade of children surrounds him, all of them with beaming smiles and promises of a fortuitous summer. He sees Azimio Adams approaching from the opposite side of the expanse field, and he bolts around the building quickly, shouldering his belongings as he makes a speedy retreat toward the main sidewalk. He doesn't see any of his friends nearby, no Noah or Sam – and he's sure that they must be pre-occupied with finding their parents, he doesn't worry about it too much as he leaves Lima Elementary with a smile on his face. He turns quickly at the main gate, and there's Rachel Berry…

Standing there with a Strawberry Shortcake backpack shouldering her small arms, her bow blowing in the cool breeze. He stands next to her for a second in his studies, and to his surprise he watches as she turns to him with a short eyebrow raise – it reminds him of Quinn Fabray – that eyebrow…Quinn's in another class however, and he quickly shakes the memory. "Hi Rach." She smiles at him when she hears the short nickname, he thinks she must not hear it too often.

"Hi, Finn." He smiles widely in return now, the both of them standing along the sidewalk – out of the corner of his brown eyes he suddenly sees Azimio Adams and Rick "The Stick" Nelson approaching hotly on his heels. He knows they're on the hunt; he sputters as he stares wide-eyed and suddenly Rachel turns around. And just as she does, he watches as a dark hand reaches out, ripping out her beautiful bow and tearing it the ground, stomping on it with wide feet.

"Piece of shit, Berry." Azimio sneers, and there are a few tears welling up in those deep brown eyes – but she doesn't let them fall, instead she lifts her chin and clears her throat, picking up her ruined bow and making her way down the sidewalk to wait for her father, Finn supposes. And as she disappears, he's left standing in front of them – alone in his fear.

"Hey Dipshit, heard you owe us some money!" Finn shakes his head violently from left to right, and then out of the corner of an abandoned portable, strolls David Karofsky with a cigarette perched between his chapped lips. He has a sneer on his face, and when he approaches he lets the exhale of smoke engulf Finn into a disgusting haze.

"What did I tell you about playing by our rules? Huh, Hudson?" Finn shakes his head again just as a large meaty fist lunges and connects with his wide gut. He wheezes painfully as he crumples to the hard ground, a hand clenched tightly around his middle, the air in his lungs fighting to hold on. Empty tears leak from his eyes as he coughs and drools along the sidewalk – through the buzzing he can hear them all laughing. Laughing at him. That same meaty hand drags him by the ankle, and soon Azimio Adams, Rick, and David are pulling him up in a half upside-down nelson. They shake him left and right; the only sound the clattering of coins and Susan B. Anthonies falling down to the ground in a clutter.

"I always get what I want." David Karofsky's voice is snide as he squeezes him by the neck. They let him go and he falls back to the ground in a heap. With one last kick to his shin from Karofsky, he's left bent and scarred along the ground, angry streaks caking his red face, his pants ripped and torn. He turns around, staring at the empty parking lot of Lima Elementary, watching their band of minions depart in a haze of smoke and devilish intent. He needs to get as far away as possible, before either of them come back.

* * *

Across the parking lot, and through East Glendale Avenue, emerges Finn Hudson, winded and tired just off of the main drag of Eisenhower. He walks down the hot sidewalk, fumbling to straighten his wrinkled cuffed jeans and _Hey Dude_ t-shirt. He finds his way walking toward McGovern Skate Park a few blocks away, his head bowed as he watches the fake grunge kids and skate-heads roll through ramps and speed-ways. He sits at a metal picnic table off to the side, and he can hear the faint screeching of Smashing Pumpkins blasting out of someone's boom box nearby. Finn however, takes this moment to settle his eyes on the sky overhead, images of bows and light freckles marring the imagery.

 _Rachel Berry_.

He has the intent to sigh, but he covers it up with a weary smirk. She really is perfect he thinks…almost too perfect. Envisioning her soft voice and her warm smile he's brought back down to earth by the butterflies rumbling within his bruised stomach. Because, he knows – that guys like him, don't deserve girls like that. She makes the sun brighter, she makes everything brighter it seems. And he could really care less that she's a loser – he's not much higher on the totem pole, but he won't ever even dare tell Puckerman or Sam about this development. He'd never see the light of day…never again. And so instead, he fancies these thoughts alone, and lets them swirl around in his adolescent mind with images of other things he loves: X-Men comics, and Global Guts, Indians baseball and Blue Jackets hockey. A dopey grin frames his face, and he wishes more than ever that he still had his left over pocket money; a sundae would have been perfect right now.

He scrambles to his feet and fumbles his body down from the picnic table bench, shouldering his book bag with a grunt. He can already feel the bruises tickling his torso as he lumbers away, further down Eisenhower. He doesn't really pay attention to where he's going, but he smiles as he kicks a heavy rock too and fro, his Nike Mega Force's '94 heavy on his feet. He's so engrossed in his musings that he fails to see the three boys straight ahead, loitering just outside of Red's Sporting Goods, a pack of cigarettes shuffled between them and a heavy paper bag holding an Olde English 40 oz. He keeps walking, kicking rocks – he doesn't see them eye him from afar, tracing him with a target sign. A woman with a baby stroller walks by quickly, and Finn recognizes her from his mother's job at the plant, he looks up – waving happily.

"Hi Mrs. Rivetta."

"Oh, hi there, Finn! It's good to see you, tell your mother I say hello okay?" Finn nods with a polite smile, just as his mother Carol had taught him.

_Mind your manners Finn Patrick!_

"It's a good thing I've run into you – if you and Noah are looking for some pocket change this summer, Mr. Rivetta would be happy to have you guys work on our yard and pool again." Finn smiles brightly, open to the opportunity, and just as he waves a polite 'goodbye' to Mrs. Rivetta and her young son Jason, he lets his eyes waver, and then he sees them…standing there, and he knows in that instant, that they've already scouted him. He's dead meat.

* * *

"Get that little fucker!" He hears David over the others and he breaks out into a sweat, turning on his heel and bolting down the alleyway between the Pawnshop and Rudy's Candy Store. He can hear them boring down on him from behind and he whimpers as his feet clang with a trashcan lid. People have probably wondered what it was that sent David Karofsky so far over evil's proverbial ledge. Finn's not the only one that the lumbering giant has it out for – no, sir. But Finn seems to be the only one who understands the capacity by which Karofsky will _hunt_. It happened almost a week ago – it was innocent really, a bathroom break in the middle of state capitals and seals. He couldn't help the fact that his shoelaces on his brand new Mega Force's came untied, scuffing in the dirt. He didn't anticipate having to bend down and re-tie them by the old water fountain near the fourth grade classrooms. He didn't mean to hear anything.

But he did.

A shudder, and a grunt. Something so feral and _wrong_ …that he almost backed away. But his feet carried him to the edge of the far wall nonetheless; his muscles forcing the craning of his neck to the small alley behind the back of the main building. And there, huddled around dead leaves and shady weeds, stood David Karofsky huddled over an issue of _Playgirl_. Finn doesn't remember seeing much – but what he did see was enough. A sweating Karofsky, back facing him, with his pants sagging too low to be secured around his waist. And that's when Finn… _knew_.

David Karofsky has a few demons. And when Karofsky heard the crunch of a branch from Finn's traitorous Nike's, he turned his face around in a wild frenzy – and Finn had been sure that he was about to die.

So he ran, hard and fast back to class – forgetting that he had to go to the bathroom at all. And ever since that day, behind the main elementary building, Karofsky's had it out for his jugular – the only thing having stopped him perhaps – being his need to keep face.

But school is out now…and Finn runs with a vigor and a fear unrivalled as he weaves through alleyways, ending up at the dead end of the far bank of the St. Evan. The smell of the Lima dump rifles his nostrils as it wafts in the air from the day's heat and humidity. And when he turns around – there they are waiting for him, the devils minions and David Karofsky with the biggest devilish grin of them all. A switchblade hanging from his grimy hand…

"Looks like you're out of luck today, twat-face." Finn scrunches his eyes to a violent close as he feels four sets of hands grab him by the arms brusquely.

"Thanks for the money, but looks like it wasn't nearly enough for all three of us – so it's time for a lesson, kid." David's breath is thick and hot with the smell of old sweat and moldy hot dogs, his heavy frame bearing down on Finn with ease as an old switchblade glints in his hand. "What d'you say 'Zimio? Should we teach him a lesson?" Azimio Adams nods and laughs something dirty and hollow right into one of Finn's ears, and Finn wishes he where anywhere else but here.

"Nice sneaks, dipshit."

_No, no…not my new Nike's. I just got those as a present – No!_

They're yanked from his feet, and he sees Rick swap them for his own ratty old shoes. "'Ey these are pretty nice." He trills mockingly as he bounces his heels in them too and fro. Finn can feel the dirt and rocks digging into his socks now, his foot lands into a puddle of stagnant water and he flinches – he wishes he were back home playing his Super Nintendo with the boys – Twinkies and Jolt cola and popcorn in hand while they watch E.T., Alien, and Nightmare On Elm Street. Buried safely under covers with walkie-talkies and stolen issues of Penthouse from Puck's old man's stash. He wishes that he were anywhere else but here. His lips fall into a thin line as he tries to kick one of the bodies holding him, failing miserably.

"Look at faggot flinch." David sneers, his breath so close, that Finn wants to vomit. He feels the cool sting of the blade hitching up the front of his shirt slowly before it bears down into the fabric with a loud rip. The blade falls back – now on the cold flesh of his sternum. "Hey, fat boy. You can't run now."

And Finn bristles, he says a silent half-remembered prayer because he's sure he's about to die – until he hears the back door to Rudy's Candy Shop open in the back alley. The steady footfalls of Rudy Landry the owner – and Finn opens pleading eyes to the old man, desperate for an out.

"Hey get outta here! Get outta here you hoodlums!" Finn feels Karofsky's fingers clench tightly against the knife before dropping it away with a smirk on his face – Azimio and Rick follow suit. Finn watches them advance on old Rudy Landry coldly – and for a split second he sees a familiar fear pass over the old man's eyes.

"Get outta here Karofsky. You're not allowed around these shops anymore, kid. You're bad news." The old man scurries to take out the piles of trash that he's holding and Karofsky keeps smiling. It says a lot when a twelve year old can strike fear in a man quadruple his age – it says… _things_. And while the three of them are distracted, Finn takes off – missing shoes and torn open shirt, down the small ravine by the St. Evan – heading for the forestry just pass the fence, heading for salvation.

His feet pound into mud and thistles and stream water, and it splashes up onto his face, chest and clothes as he tries to hide, to get away. It doesn't take long before he hears the echoes of David and his cronies somewhere behind him – picking up on his scent. He weaves through trees and grass until he ends up on the forested side of Lima Township, stumbling through trees and trees and trees. He hears the hum of the river nearby, and he knows he's run far into the underbrush. Not far off the echoes of his evil captors can be heard ascending down onto him like a plague and he lumbers on, wheezing, and out of breath until he finds a secluded ravine behind a few bushes. He buries himself there and covers his eyes, hoping that perhaps today – God will save him. And that's when he hears it…when he hears them…familiarly soft voices clamoring away nearby, oblivious to the perils surrounding them.

* * *

"You can't be serious, Santana. The Red Ranger is the best one out of all of them." Finn knows that voice, it's husky in nature and completely feminine. A mask of long blonde hair and pretty baby doll dresses and sandals – he'd recognize that voice anywhere – everyone who's anyone at Lima Elementary knows about Quinn Fabray. They know about her sister too – that was a sad story if ever Finn heard one, and he shudders at the recollection. It's only been eight months, but the wounds still feel fresh – and he wonders sometimes, staring into the pristine face of _Quinn Fabray_ from across the playfield during lunch – just how she's managed for so long. He wouldn't have been able to do it, not one bit. It's sad really, knowing that about someone – knowing that her parents have stopped attending Lima Episcopal. Knowing all of their secrets. But everyone's got skeletons Finn supposes, and he doesn't fault her for that. Finn burrows deeper under his hiding space, and he watches through gaps in the leaves as a flurry of blonde curls passes by in the near distance.

"Black Ranger owns, you're a pansy if you like the Red Ranger… _Power Rangers_ is for pussies anyway, you might as well watch _Barney_." Finn knows that voice too, steely and vicious from years of malicious use. Santana Lopez is scary in ways that Karofsky and his cronies could never be.

"Whatever San."

"I'm serious, _Power Rangers_ makes you a pussy."

"That's a bad word, I don't like it."

"Pussypussypussypussypussy." Finn can tell that the two girls are on the verge of more than innocent chitchat as the ire between them rises. And before he can hear Quinn Fabray's retort, he hears…them. Karofsky and troupe approaching, and he wheezes as his bones give a heady jolt.

"Look what we have here 'Zimio!" Karofsky's tone is deep in intent, and laced with all of the bad things that one could possibly point out in the world.

"A couple of carpet munchers."

"Fuck off fart-lickers." Finn notices that Santana is nothing if not brave, maybe even a little stupid for a comment like that.

"What's that?"

"You heard her…leave. We were here first; you can go somewhere else Karofsky. And take your dogs with you." Azimio lunges at the blonde girl before Karofsky stops him with a meaty hand to the chest; he laughs maliciously showing his pointed teeth.

"I like 'em sassy – all the more fun to beat it out of 'em later, Fabray…you seen Hudson around here?" Finn's breath catches as he stares through the gaps of foliage, his socks sticking wetly to the pruning skin of his feet.

"No… and if that's all you wanted you can leave now." Finn hears Karofsky laugh, and through the sunlight beaming in through the trees, his eyes catch the glint of shiny metal, brandished within a few inches of that familiar porcelain face.

"Fine, Fabray – but next time, we won't be so nice, you got that?" And with the flourish of the blade, Finn watches wide eyed as it comes down to scrape a thin line along one of those immaculate cheeks, ending in a bold red line through beautiful flesh. He watches her gasp and clutch at her tarnished skin, and sees with mild horror as the beast within Santana Lopez rises to the surface as she makes for a lunge straight to Karofsky's face. She's caught a second too soon by thin arms and blonde hair – lighter than Quinn's, held up in two identical pigtails. Brittany Pierce Finn thinks, he wonders where she crawled out from.

"That's right, listen to your little guard dog." Karofsky spits on the ground, and as Santana seethes with barely withheld anger, Finn Hudson watches as he walks away back from whence he came – his cronies in tow, all of them laughing with sinister intent. It takes a few moments for Finn to catch his breath, he sputters into the dirt around his cheeks and clutches at his beating chest – he doesn't realize the hold of thin fingers wrapping around his torn shirt from behind, or the way that he's lifted and spun around to stare down into the deep, livid dark brown eyes of Santana Lopez. "Hudson." She bites out, her eyes hold an odd ire, and he flinches within her clutch. He sees now as Quinn approaches to his side – her usual dress abandoned for a pair of jean short overalls and a dirty white t-shirt. Her hair, pulled back into a sloppy ponytail laced with small bits of gravel. Brittany isn't far behind, she comes sauntering up in a flourish, wearing ripped shorts and a green hoodie, smiling at him in that way that she usually does during recess. He thinks that he's always liked her.

"San, leave him alone… he didn't do anything." Finn sighs out a deep breath as he's dropped back down to the ground, he takes this moment to see the faint cut along Quinn's right cheek – the crimson line a stark contrast from the white of her skin.

"Does that hurt? I have a Band-Aid in my backpack." Quinn shakes her head with cold hazel eyes – her expression doesn't change, the only thing fluid about her being a fine blonde eyebrow that rises above her eye in silent curiosity.

"Why was Karof-sleeze following you?" Finn shrugs his shoulders.

"He just has it out for me, I guess." Quinn takes the moment to nod quietly, her expression still stony and extremely intimidating. Finn notices that she must be sizing him up – he realizes a moment too late that he's shoe-less and that his shirt is ripped open from hem to an inch or two below his collar, exposing his chest and gut. A tinge of red works up his cheeks as he lingers within the girls' gazes.

"I like you." Brittany chirps with a smile, and Finn looks at her curiously for a moment before smiling back nervously. "Thanks…you're Brittany, right?" She nods her head with a grin and Santana scowls. Finn doesn't ask for her name, but it's okay because Brittany does all of the introductions for him.

"This is Santana, she's my best friend. And that's Quinn, my other best friend. We were all in Mrs. Partridge's class so that's probably why we never talked to you or anything. But I don't think you're so bad, did you have Mrs. Geller?" Finn nods much more confidently now – he looks up to see that Quinn isn't paying much attention to him anymore, he watches her walk off and back around the bend of bushes from where they came.

"I like Mrs. Geller. She lets me pet the Guinea Pig in her room sometimes when I'm sad. Isn't Rachel Berry in your class?" Finn nods again, a faint blush creeping further up his cheeks as his mind drifts back to the object of his innocent affection. The image of wide smiles, and pretty bows settles him into a pleasant calm as he nods his head up and down.

"Ugh, she's so _weird_." He hears Santana whine as she gets bored and takes off from where he thinks Quinn left too. He follows her to retort, an ire rising in his chest for Rachel Berry, defending her coolly. "No she's not!"

" _No she isn't!_ " The other sound causes him to stop, and he looks around to see Quinn Fabray around the bend, playing around a rickety fort made of sticks and branches and leaves, her cheeks pink from the unwanted admonition. Finn stares at her curiously for a moment and smiles – because she defended Rachel! Santana just shrugs her shoulders and walks over to join Quinn at their fort. "Whatever, you guys are all weird then." Quinn fixes her friend with a glare as Brittany bounds past him to join in the fort construction. He goes to turn around, having lost all of their attention. But before he can take more than a step away, he hears a clear voice call after him in the air.

"We could use some help, I think. Do you like forts?" And Finn smiles. Already knowing that it was Quinn who spoke out. He turns around slowly and walks steadily back to their trio, one foot falling in front of the other. A smile falling from his lips as he nods.

"Sure."


	6. Quinn Fabray Races For All Stars

# PART TWO: JUNE OF 1994

## CHAPTER SIX:

### QUINN FABRAY RACES FOR ALL STARS

 

_Quinn Fabray stares at the AirPort of her MacBook Infinity, and counts the ascending bars over and over again. The computer is fairly new – the newest model, just released in September, with all of the features that someone with the appropriate monetary means could afford._

_She stares at the blinking jet black cursor as it strobes in and out of visibility, mocking her with its inability to spell out all of the confusion currently jumbling around within her head._

_WRITE!_

_She thinks._

_WRITE!_

_Her lips whine._

_She struggles to will her fingers to move across the nimble keys. The Airline Wi-Fi laughs at her inability to do even the most simple of tasks. She stares at the empty composition of her email, and sighs, letting her head thud back against the stiff headrest of her seat. The woman sitting next to her looks over for a moment and smiles weakly. Her French twist pinned immaculately to her pale head._

_"You're Quinn Fabray, aren't you?" Quinn can tell that this woman is trying for discretion, but it's hushed and ambiguous in the stuffy air of the quiet cabin, and she's sure that everyone around them have probably heard by now. She simply smiles, shutting her laptop with a small click._

_"My husband just loved you in 'Indigo.' You and that Russell Crowe, is he really that dreamy in real life? I've always wondered?" Quinn smiles again despite her growing headache and closes her eyes; she just wants this woman to shut up._

_"Actually he's a jackass."_

_"Oh, are you sure? … He seems so lovely from magazines, and th –"_

_"Nope. Still a jackass."_

_"Hmmpf." The woman grumbles and sinks back into her seat, her eyes casting disapproving side-glances as she ruffles her scarf around her shoulders. Quinn lets a short smirk grace her lips as her eyes close with the peace of silence. And now that she is absent from the metal tube from which she currently resides, her mind whirs with all of the things she's managed to hide beneath the surface up until this resounding point. Her childhood and her adolescence, the reason why she's such a good dramatic actress in the first place – the best of her generation they say. She's already been nominated for six Oscars in the fifteen years since she began on this unfulfilling journey. She hasn't won yet…but they say that it is inevitable for stars like her. They've asked her, over and over again, especially in the beginning – how someone so young could understand so much pain. They asked if anything that she gave away on screen, resonated from real life fears and real life hatred. And she always gave a coy smile, and she would say: "method acting is an art, and it is hard to do – it is hard on the mind, the spirit, the body – but that is all it is…acting."_

_Lies._

_All of it. Lies._

_She realizes this now, as the murky froth of her past bubbles up into a thick rolling boil, threatening to spill over the edges of reason. It's like a flood and she remembers all of them. What they did. What they've done. She can see the lake by Griffith Park, and hands shooting out of the dark beneath the old burned down auditorium of William McKinley High School – a place she never had the grace to actually attend. And in this moment, as she sits in an airplane, soaring unto her impending doom – she realizes that all that has happened in her life, has simply been a means to an end. A line, drawn full circle at last. Beginning and ending in Lima, Ohio._

_"Ma'am?"_

_"Hmm?" The stewardess is calm, a faint tint of lipstick smudged on one of her front teeth. She smiles widely as she motions to the IN FLIGHT button currently illuminated above the seat. Quinn looks up with a frown._

_"I didn't press the button, it must be broken or something."_

_"It's perfectly all right ma'am, I can grab you anything you need."_

_"No, I don't need anything. I'm fine, it was a mistake."_

_"Are you sure? Coffee? Tea? Spirits?" Quinn quickly grows agitated, the old HBIC stony glare coming back after years and years of retirement. She's always had it, that fire – it was about time it began to rear it's ugly head – she reckons she'll need it._

_"NO. I said I don't need anything." The stewardess smiles timidly and backs away, Quinn can hear the French twist of a woman next to her, muttering about her less than becoming attitude under her breath. Quinn is oddly pleased – although she shouldn't be. If she were coming back to her old life, her publicist would ream her alive for stunts like this. She doesn't particularly give a damn as of late though. And that's perfectly okay with her. She looks across the dimly lit aisle at the array of people sitting around her; all of them in different states of dress – none of them aware of the dangers that haunt them in the darkness - All of them oblivious to the evils that seek them in the night._

_Quinn frowns at the thought, letting her eyes fall past her MacBook resting in her lap to the soles of Converse All Stars donning the feet of the gentleman directly across from her. He's asleep – with large noise cancelling headphones on his head, a faint shadow gracing his neck and chin. He's handsome, and casual – and if Quinn weren't refined – maybe she'd consider flirting with him a little if he were awake – in another lifetime perhaps. A lifetime when her sexuality weren't so goddamn Sapphic. She bites her lip at the ironies of her life – the leading men, the tabloids, the sex. All of it lies and petty fodder – if they all knew just how gay she really was…they'd probably shit bricks. She wants to laugh, but she reels it in, letting her thoughts jump and skip over the irrelevancies of her life – falling with a forced thud on the one thing that's really caught her attention amidst all of this disarray._

_Black Converse All Stars._

_High Tops._

_Her hazel eyes swim with pools of green as she studies the gentleman's shoes – and she remembers that she once had a pair just like them…that summer. A pair that was almost identical. She remembers now, walking into Lloyd Frost's shoe store the month before the last week of class, 1994. Her mother, Judy had been petulant about a young lady's self presence and daintiness, and she wouldn't have it – no sir – no daughter of hers would be seen out in public gallivanting in hoodlum's sneakers. But as the thought had crossed her French-twisted mind, and her hand itched toward the pretty sandals the row over – Quinn could see it in her far away green eyes. The realization, that there was only one Fabray daughter left upon which to instill said vanities. The ire had burned away quickly as Mr. Frost stared between the remaining two Fabray women pitifully._

_"Mrs. Fabray? We have a wonderful collection of summer sandals." And Quinn had watched as her mother collapsed within herself in the middle of that empty shoe store. She observed the varying doors and interlays of Judy Fabray's mind as they closed off one by one – leaving a hollow void where a body once stood. Quinn could hardly watch. Not like that._

_"No – no, it's fine Lloyd, I'll have a pair of your All Stars, in your size 6. For Quinn." Quinn remembers them now, the white of the fresh rubber, the canvas inlay. The rubber toe gleaming beneath the fluorescent light – and she hadn't said anything. She hadn't commented on the way her mother's hands shook as she wrote out a paper check. She hadn't spoken when Mr. Frost bagged them up with a frown on his face. And when they had finally returned home from their excursion, it was to an empty house and a drunken father. Judy had excused herself to her bedroom, and Quinn had been left to try on her shoes in the silence of her sister's absence. She remembers walking the hardwood flooring, listening to the squeak of the rubber, and all she could really think about…was how forgotten she'd become. Her parents had finally checked out, and they'd left her far, far behind. Alone in her proverbial palace._

_It had been at this particular moment in time, that Quinn Fabray actively decided to change her morose predicament. She hid the bottles from prying hands and glassy eyes. She picked up photographs that had been slammed face down on countertops, tilting them upward to perfection – wiping the smudges off of her younger sister's face. She remembered her._

_For all of them._

_She remembered._

_And with that resolution, quickly came June of 1994, sweeping down on her like a heavy rain. Leaving her baby doll dresses and overall skirts behind, to be washed by her mother on one of her good days – Quinn had traded it all in for jean shorts, and tall socks. Short dungarees and tattered baseball caps that used to belong to her father. She let the immaculate beds of her pristine nails tarnish with mud and dirt from the riverbank behind the Lima Township Limits. She let the dirt and the air of summer, wash clean the dry sorrow seeping into her family life at home – cell by cell. Her Converse All Stars scuffed and scratched on her feet, marking the beginning of the end for all of them. Almost a week to the day from when Finn Hudson had set foot on their dismantled fort, did everything change. Like cogs set into a scheduled motion._

_And the world as Quinn Fabray once knew it, fell away in flames of dust and dirt. Her feet pounding on hollowed pavement…_

_"Runn" she remembers them screaming into her hair…_

_"QUINN! Runnnnnn!"_

_She could beat lightening in those shoes._

_Boy could she fly._

_Run._

* * *

"Runnnn!"

Her breath shoots out in hot pants and spurts, and she can feel the sweat on her skin fall over the small crest of her upper lip, burning with a warm saltiness on her tongue. If she weren't so pre-occupied with winning, she may have cared. Young girls shouldn't be quite so reckless Quinnie! She shrugs off the layered expectations of her mother as her feet pound out one in front of the other. She can feel the thudding of feet behind her, gaining in purchase and she tucks a quick left, letting the gravel predict the drift of rubber on dirt. She skids in the ground on the bend, shaking her pursuer as the ball flies into her arms with steady accuracy. The football is light and rough in her arms as she cradles it, sprinting for the bushes toward the far end of the clearing - where sweatshirts outline the goalposts. Her feet connect, and faintly someone cheers – she can already hear Santana cursing her from behind, a slew of bad words on her too-quick-for-her-own-good tongue.

"That was horse-shit Fabray! I tapped you!"

"Bull-crap Satan!"

"Who you calling Satan, Fabreeze?"

Santana is close, her ponytail swaying behind her as her neck cocks with a special attitude reserved for a singular brand of annoyed aggravation—and Quinn smiles, not backing down in the slightest. They're only barely breaking double digits but she knows Santana Lopez all too well. She lets the ball tumble out from under her fingertips to bounce away on the uneven gravel, a slow grin spreading out across her face.

"I won fair and square, didn't I Finn?"

Finn sits over by the fort that they built less than a week ago. Some late Midwest rain knocked it out, and now all that's left are the falling rocks and sticks of the sub-par foundation. She watches him as he wipes sweat from his forehead with his free hand, a rosy hue spreading out across his cheeks as he catches his breath. They'd all been spending their days back here behind the Township limits. The forestry giving them an air of seclusion on the boring days, and they're right next to the outflow of the St. Evan, a small river bending nearby. Quinn and Brittany found this place two summers ago by accident, she had followed Brittany back here when the other girl had spotted a train of ducklings disappearing behind the underbrush. They've come back ever since, whenever the weather in Lima calls for it. And this is their spot – the three of them. Except, now Finn Hudson's joined the mix, and frankly…that isn't quite so bad. It helps that he's got a decent throwing arm.

"Yea, sure Quinn…" Santana takes this moment to turn, rounding on Finn with a fire in her dark eyes.

"Actually, _Finn_ – maybe you'd like to do the five knuckle shuffle Hulk Hogan style with my fist." Finn's eyes go wide in a panic as he backs away.

"No, I'd rather not."

"No, I think you do." Santana manages to round on him quickly, her Fila's digging into the gravel as her ponytail sways. She has a smile on her face as she pounds her right fist into the palm of her left hand. It isn't until Brittany bounds in from the edge of the river with wild dandelions in her hands that the tension ebbs. Quinn breathes a sigh of relief – she was beginning to like Hudson after all.

"Hey everybody! I found flowers!" Finn stares between Santana and Brittany with a certain relief, but once he eyes the flowers in Brittany's hands he opens his mouth to disagree.

"But wait…aren't those weeds? My mom hates dandle –" He doesn't even finish before a fist is pounded into his shoulder, Santana has a scowl on her face and a confused Brittany approaching from behind her. Finn just sputters as Quinn watches the chaos unfold.

"Shut up Hudson!"

"Okay, okay, okay. Just don't hurt me!" with a hand to her palm Santana falls back to turn and look at the flowers that Brittany's brought her. Finn just stares at the two of them in mild horror, a hand clutching his bruised shoulder – Quinn takes this moment to feel sorry for the kid, at least a little bit. She walks up to him quietly.

"What's her problem?" Finn rasps, as he rubs at the sore flesh of his shoulder.

"Don't worry about Santana, at least she plays with you – that's more than most people." Finn frowns. "But I didn't do anything to her. She doesn't have to be so mean all the time." Quinn shrugs her shoulders and turns to look at her two friends, picking wild flowers by the edge of the river. When she turns back around, Finn's got a curious look on his face, and Quinn can't quite place it – almost like a cartoon – when the light bulb in their heads go off when they get some crazy idea. She knows that her assessment is right when a dopey smile crawls across his face.

"What?"

"I know it's just you guys out here, and it's your spot and all. But –" Finn hesitates, biting his bottom lip.

"Spit it out already."

"Like, it's just you guys here…and no offence but you're all …girls." Quinn raises her eyebrow in a glare and Finn quickly attempts to backtrack. "No – no, you guys are awesome girls, it's just that I'm the only dude – and a dude needs a bat cave, and like his sidekicks you know?"

"What are you talking about?"

"CanIbringmyfriendsNoahandSam?" He rushes out in a breath.

"Huh?"

"Noah Puckerman, and Sam Evans. They're my best friends, and I really think they'd love it out here. Plus they could help you out with the fort and stuff."

"You mean Puck and that weird kid whose always talking about X-Files and stuff?"

"Yea them."

"I'll think about it, will they be nice to Brittany?" Finn takes a moment to look over at the blonde in question, she's currently wrapped up in a smile as she stares up at the swirling clouds, Santana following her blue-eyed gaze overhead.

"Yep. I promise. Plus, Santana's super scary about Brittany, so I'll tell them to be cool."

"I guess."

* * *

By the next morning, Quinn stands in a medium sized bedroom that is suddenly much too big. The other side of the room is emptied and cleared away, a shadow where a small child's bed once rested, the bookshelves and toy chest empty. Quinn doesn't look that way anymore, she walks past the emptiness everyday with her eyes clenched shut and her breath held within her cheeks. They say it's bad luck to breathe when passing by a graveyard – and that's exactly what this room feels like. She hurries to the hall bathroom and sighs out the breath she'd been holding, watching her cheeks fall back to their normal elasticity. She has hair in her eyes, and it waves around her face un-brushed – she grabs for a scrunchie and pulls it into a ponytail, a small barrette clipped to keep her bangs in place.

"Lucille Quinn Elizabeth?" her mother trills brokenly from the other side of the hallway. "Is that you sweetie?" Quinn frowns, letting her small hands clench against the porcelain of the sink. She rolls her shoulders and exits the bathroom, walking quietly and deliberately to her parent's room at the far end of the long hallway. The door is half-ajar and she can smell the after odor of stale liquor and Chanel no. 5. Her mother lies cradled into herself beneath the white sheets; her father is all but disappeared.

"Yes, mom?"

"Sweetie, I've missed you." Judy's eyes are glassy and foggy from sleep, and maybe a Valium – Quinn's begun to notice them scattered around the house like kibbles. She smiles weakly and approaches the bed, pulling the frayed blonde hair away from her mother's far away eyes. She's much too young to have to deal with the shortcomings of this sort of life – and she knows this – but she does it anyway.

"Tell – Tell your sister to wake up, because we're having her favorite today for breakfast. Chocolate chip pancakes and Strawberry Nesquik…can you do that Quinnie?" Quinn looks at her mother's eyes – and perhaps this was the moment when she was certain that she'd lost her, at ten years old – the reality had finally, truly set it. Dark and regretful, burning like acid in her small chest.

"Yes mommy – I'll go get her, okay?"

"Okay, you be good now. She looks up to you so much Lucy Quinn… _be good_."

"I will, mommy." And with a half smile and a sigh, Judy falls back against the pillows to pull the sheets and covers over her sallow face. And Quinn just runs – she gets to the hall and bolts for the cupboard beneath the stairs for her rollerblades. She slings them over her shoulder and grabs for her converse, slipping them onto her feet without untying the checkered laces – and she runs. There are tears in her eyes and she doesn't realize this as her feet propel her to the edge of Fern Street, she books a right and keeps going, going, going – until she's out of breath and winded, right at the corner of Yellory Road, at the outskirts of the old softball field. And she just _falls_. Her knees scuffing in the dirt, it stings when the gravel digs in but she doesn't care – she just falls into the dirt, hoping that she could just disappear right into it… _disappear forever_. It hurts being the only one left who knows – the only Fabray to remember what life had been like with her in it. And nobody understands, they never could - and Quinn just misses her, like night misses day once the Sun rises … she misses everything about her. And she cries, burning a hole into the red tint of her cheeks – she cries, alone – and tired. She cries.

"Are you alright?" A voice behind her startles her and she flinches up and away from the gravel, she books a hard glare to her right to see a girl only a few steps away. All Mary Janes and knee socks and a pretty pleated skirt. Her eyes travel up, past a Lisa Frank t-shirt and into the brownest eyes she's ever seen – and she immediately knows who her intruder is… _Rachel Berry_. Quinn nods tiredly.

"You don't look alright. You…you're crying…"

"I'm fine." Quinn sits up and grimaces as she scans the bloody scrapes on her knees.

"Don't lie, Quinn." At this point Quinn looks up, her eyes narrowed. Her lips held in a steady line as she regards the brunette who's suddenly moved to sit down next to her in the dirt – she observes how Rachel Berry's small hands move to smooth out her skirt softly before taking a seat.

"You know my name? …Also, I wasn't lying, that's a mortal sin."

"Of course – everybody in Lima knows your name, plus we used to catch the bus together in first grade, I always sat behind you – and you wore a green ribbon in your hair almost every day." The girl extends her hand softly, a shy smile stretching her lips. "I'm Rachel Barbra Berry by the way, future Broadway extraordinaire." Quinn doesn't take her hand.

"I know who you are."

"Um, okay – but…you still haven't told me if you're alright." Quinn sighs and gets up from the ground, wiping the evidence of her tears away from her face with a glare and a heavy frown. "I said I'm fine."

"Quinn, I told you that you didn't have to lie – I find that I have a very natural keen sense of lie detection – I'm like a walking polygraph."

"I'm fine." Quinn expels in a rush, the fire burning beneath her skin. If she were being completely honest, she really doesn't want Rachel to go – something about her is so soothing, so calm. The smell of her hair, the bounce to her skirts – the immaculate trail of her painted fingernails - and Quinn turns her head away fighting a blush. She just needs to leave, she has fort business to attend to – and her mini breakdown and run in with Rachel Berry has made her unfashionably late. _Fabray's are always nothing if not punctual, Quinnie!_

"I'm sorry, I just – I have to go."

"It's perfectly alright Quinn. It was a pleasure running into you today. Have a wonderful summer." And then a thought strikes the blonde as she studies the collected face of Rachel Berry, eyes bright and inquisitive.

"What were you doing out here anyway, Berry?"

"Oh, just walking to go meet a few of my comrades for afternoon tea by the creek. This softball field is primarily a shortcut if you will." Quinn smiles faintly.

"You use a lot of words."

"So I've been told." Quinn doesn't respond, she just lets her eyes fall back up to the blazing horizon, her rollerblades digging into her shoulder blades.

"Are you going through the back-way, over by the end of the creek by the fence?"

"Why yes, I am."

"I guess we're going in the same direction, then." And Quinn just starts walking, a slow immaculate gait – her ponytail waving behind her as she moves forward through the old softball pitch – and after a moment of hesitation, she can hear the faint scuffle of Mary Janes on gravel, scurrying to catch up.

"What a wonderful coincidence!"

* * *

"What's _she_ doing here?"

Quinn shrugs her shoulders and sets down her rollerblades by a wilting bush, letting them drop ungracefully. She turns to look at Santana who has a wonderful sneer on her face and a hammer in one of her hands. Brittany is smiling, and Finn just looks up and smiles from where he and Noah Puckerman are hammering nails into tree branches.

"We were just walking in the same direction." Quinn murmurs. Brittany is beaming now as she skips over to Rachel, wrapping her up in a tight hug. Santana digs her hammer into a tree trunk, whacking it back and forth repeatedly as she scowls.

"I was just stopping by, I have a standing appointment however…and should be going soon."

"Why does she _talk like that_? You sound like a more annoying version of _Bill Nye the Science Guy _, and I hate that show." Santana whacks the tree again and Brittany disconnects from Rachel to begin an impromptu dance beat whilst shouting the Bill Nye theme song. _Bill, Bill, Bill Bill..Biiillll Nyeeee The Scienceeee Guyyyyy___. Finn stops nailing tree branches for a moment to look up and smile at the brunette warmly – Quinn sees the glance – a small envious ripple passing through her stomach at the sight, she can't help her frown, and she has no idea why. Noah Puckerman takes a moment to look up and he smirks, showing off his red and black-banded braces – his hair, dark and thick - is unruly and messy on his head. A Star of David chain hangs from his neck, swinging back and forth atop his sweatshirt.

"Hey, JewBerry!"

"Hi, Noah." Rachel smiles. "My daddies and I have missed your company at temple lately." Noah smirks again, slinging a branch over his shoulder into some underbrush. "Temple's for ass-wipes, I have better stuff to do – like stealing Nerf Guns from Toys N' Things."

"Noah!" Rachel gasps, her eyes wide.

"I won't tell if you don't, babe." Quinn watches him wink, and she shivers. She has no idea where Noah Puckerman picked up his detestable language, and she's already growing sick of it –but he's got strong hands, and he can play touch football with the best of them at school – and if you ignore his horrible mouth, he isn't too bad. And so, she simply ignores him, it works out better for all of them that way.

Rachel grimaces at the boy's language and Quinn almost laughs at her face – it's almost cute in its uneasiness – and the Quinn stops – because why did that thought just cross her mind? She blushes prettily, hiding it skillfully by looking down and slinging a rock between her sneakers. From somewhere behind them, not too far off in the distance a shrill voice is heard through the thicket of trees – a high-pitched thing, followed by another – muffled by foliage and branches. There's something familiar about the sound, and Quinn can't quite place it. That is until she sees Rachel's face light up – and her feet begin to itch to move.

"Ah, it seems as though I should be going, it sounds like my friends have arrived."

"Stop being stupid, you don't have friends." Santana, all sneer and bite. Quinn slaps her slyly against the back of the head, her hammer falls to the ground with a thud.

"I do too have friends Santana…" Rachel worries her lip between her teeth but doesn't back away from her stance, she flits her bright eyes through the thicket of trees again, looking for more voices on the wind. "Like who, your collection of Cabbage Patch dolls? Those don't count." Quinn looks up at Rachel again and sees her eyes fall, her teeth biting her bottom lip again.

"We're friends…" Quinn whispers into the air around them - like a small halo in the summer breeze. Santana looks up disbelievingly and Quinn grunts out a shoulder shrug, dropping her hazel eyes to glance at anything else but the dark pupils currently boring into her accusingly. Rachel's lashes snap up at the unexpected display, a bright smile stretching across her face – so big the gaps in her molars are visible where her adult teeth haven't quite grown in yet – like pointed tips framing her smile – adorable really, in it's entirety.

"Whatever, Fabray." Santana grumbles, picking up her hammer and trading it in for a large wrench from the toolbox that sits over by the old fort – it probably belongs to Noah. And then the voices from before trill once again through the air, much closer now than before, and like a silhouette two bodies appear in the underbrush, ascending down into their already claimed plateau of fort-land. The boy is familiar – in a Beauty and the Beast collared t-shirt and pinstriped shorts that reach his legs mid thigh. His socks are white and immaculate, his feet rested in his boat shoes. The girl that's with him Quinn recognizes from swim class at the local pool. She has braids in her hair, an array of them – they all fall down to frame her face and neck with beautiful multicolored layered beads, they clack together as she walks.

"I told you Mercedes, Ariel is not as pretty as Belle. Belle is a classic beauty – with poise. I learned that word from stealing my aunt's old copies of _Vogue._ "

" _Vogue_? What's that?"

"It's like the Bible, for clothes…I think."

 _Kurt Hummel_ , Quinn hums, her brain turning slowly as the two of them make their entrance – Santana is the first to notice, her feather's ruffled and her teeth bared – not all of her molars and incisors having grown in just yet.

"You can't be here losers!" She sneers. Kurt turns, to set eyes on the delicate mess that they've clearly just walked into – Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Noah Puckerman…with the exception of Finn Hudson and Rachel Berry – they've just walked unannounced into a Lion's den of sorts – with Lima Elementary's most renowned and regarded vixens.

"Um…we were just leaving…"

"No we weren't, we're here to hang out…with Rachel." The girl with the beads announces with an air of diva-tude that Quinn can surprisingly appreciate.

"See – Quinn this is why we can't hang out with losers like Berry, she's just gonna infect us with her loser cooties, and look…she already started." Santana grumbles angrily. But before she can continue her angered diatribe a voice rings out from the other side of the clearing, stilling their movements. And just like words falling on a downturned wind, the sound of snapping branches irks them all out of their seemingly small stand off – the sound of sneakers on deadened leaves, of teeth clicking together in the summer air - The smell of cheep cigarettes and tobacco, the swish of a Swiss army blade – Karofsky. He bounds through the opposite end of the clearing, the same direction from whence he came exactly a week ago. He has a cigarette in his mouth and Azimio Adams on his heels – his hair in a fresh cut. His teeth bared as he scans the young faces surrounding him, his lips quivering up into a sneer – one by one those dark eyes circle in a round, surveying his unsuspecting and ill prepared prey.

"Helloo cock-wipes…. _dykes_." He iterates, landing a heavy glance toward Santana – her fists clenching and twisting around a wrench which lays hidden between warm fingers, obscured behind a lithe back. David's eyes pass onward, he spots Noah, and then he sees Finn. His smile growing, flickering in the daylight.

"Hudson, should have known I'd find you here. We've been looking for you."

"You can't have him. He's our friend now." Quinn isn't sure when she became the voice of reason within their small band of misfits – she isn't even sure if they're a group enough to even call misfits to begin with. But they all have something in common, she's sure – a deep seeded hatred, and a fear of the large boy in denim trousers and a Sex Pistols t-shirt. She stands her ground as he approaches her, all smoke and fire in his burning eyes – the scab on her cheek is almost gone now – she watches as he eyes his handy work.

"Fabray…anyone ever tell you that you need to shut your rat trap? I'll do it for you if you like… _kindly _." He reaches out a meaty hand and snatches her by the arm, thick fingers pulsing into her skin, leaving white patches around the points of contact – it burns as he twists – his eyes blazing – she swears that for a second she sees a gleam of hatred so foul that she would recoil if she could – a familiarity so rank, that she can't bear to think of it's origin…she's seen things in those eyes before – in dreams and nightmares…they remind her of clowns and balloons…of drains and blonde hair floating on murky surfaces.__

"Let her go!" It's a voice she doesn't expect, from a small body clad in knee socks and a pleated skirt, eyes dark and wide – her cheeks red…her hair flies around her face as she runs up, hands outstretched. She reaches for his arm to pull him off, and he launches sideways, hitting her with his elbow on her cheek – it'll leave a bruise, Quinn is sure. Rachel's eyes well up beautifully, but her resolve doesn't falter as she swings with his momentum. He gets her again, in the eye this time – the tears fall from their perches, unbridled. And before anyone can do anything else, a small tan hand rises and slaps the skin of his cheek with a resounding clack. The world stops all too suddenly, and Rachel realizes the gravity of the situation that she's just unearthed… _he'll kill her_. Quinn is sure. He'll _kill her_. There is no doubt. His hand releases Quinn's arm and she falls to the ground, beautifully horrific petal blossoms of bruises – five of them – already beginning to surface on her skin. And then Karofsky, approaching with his knife – straight for the beautiful girl with the tan skin and big eyes, the girl who is frozen in fear. Quinn pulls up and runs for her, all Converse and steady legs and apprehensive eyes - snatching her by the hand and pulling her back behind her.

"Let her GO!" Karofsky wails, moving forward like an animal – rabid.

"Run!" She screams. And like a stampede, sixteen pairs of feet bound through thickets of mud and dirt, down riverbanks and gravel pathways. Quinn and Rachel in the lead, Santana, Puckerman, Finn, Brittany, Kurt and Mercedes behind them…all of them running. Black converse jumping over rocks and beds of water, splashing through leaves and twigs…a pair of Mary Janes hot on their heels – keeping them company. And as sixteen pairs of sneakers branch out onto a Softball field deserted by children – the sounds of Karofsky and Azimio all but disappear as they all fall to the ground in varying states of unease and worry. Kurt looks the most shaken and Quinn has no idea why – the boy trembles with a fear she couldn't possibly imagine, his eyes holding secrets that she's sure won't be secret for very much longer. Rachel's left eye has already begin to bruise, a halo of purple and red surrounding the skin, tear tracks caked down her cheeks – and Quinn just wants to hug her – but she stops herself, not sure if that's appropriate. _The essence of poise, Quinnie!_

"We better find a new spot." She hears Finn wheeze from beside her, and she nods – all eyes on her it seems – the leader of this impromptu band of misfits.

"I know of a place." It's the girl with the beads in her hair, Quinn thinks her name is Mercedes… she doesn't know the girl well – but they're all in this together now, and it seems as though their small group of four, suddenly got much bigger.

"Sounds good. What's your name by the way?"

"Mercedes Jones…and this here is Kurt. Kurt Hummel." Quinn nods, her rollerblades forgotten by their abandoned fort – oddly she doesn't miss them – at least not yet.

"Nice to meet you both."'

"That makes one of us." Santana drawls.

* * *

By the time Quinn returns home, she's exhausted – all droopy eyes and muddy skin. The gooseflesh still stand deliciously on end against the cells of her arms and legs, she hurries into the front door – just before the street lights can hail their coming. The house is silent in her arrival, she almost wishes someone where here to greet her…that dinner had already been made. Instead she ascends the sturdy staircase, settling her eyes on the open doorway of her parent's bedroom – her mother asleep in the same fetal position that Quinn left her in this morning - Her father still gone.

"Samantha is that you?"

_No Mother…no mom, no. It's me…it's Quinn._

"Goodnight, Mom." Quinn whispers as she passes by the doorway. Judy chuckles hollowly at her mistake, burrowing deeper into the comforter.

"Oh, hello Quinnie… sleep well honey." Quinn won't tell her that it's only seven o'clock, or that there is no dinner on the stove, no food in the refrigerator. She won't show her the bruises on her arm – her Mother is bound not to even notice anyway. Instead she simply nods, a shaky curl of her hair, as she walks past the doorway and into her darkened bedroom. She hits the light switch and closes the door, illuminating the space in a halo of false light. She turns to walk toward her bed in order to change out of her dirty clothes, and when she turns to the closet to grab a bath towel…she sees it. Sitting there on the floor in the empty space of Quinn's now solitary room. It rests where a bed once stood, sitting pristinely against the floor, all plastic hair and tiny clothes. A smile on the plastic face that Quinn so vividly remembers. And, it may be ridiculous how a toy can instill such a pang of fear into ten year old Quinn Fabray's heart – but it does – like locomotors run off of their tracks, the adrenaline speeds through her veins, choking her lungs…

_Because what is Tannie Barbie doing in her bedroom._

"Tannie…?" Quinn whispers into the air, not expecting an answer, because surely dolls can't talk back. Her feet propel her forward, into the space that once held her younger sister. The space that is so devoid of life at all that Quinn does everything in her power to avoid it. Her fingers reach for the Barbie doll timidly, clasping it. She pulls it up to her face and her breaths quicken as she stares into the painted on make-up of a doll that was lost over six months ago into a drain…so why is Tannie here? Quinn hears a noise and she looks up suddenly, her eyes falling on a calendar on the wall directly in front of her face…and when did that get there? It wasn't there a second ago.

_Am I losing my mind? Like Jack Nicholson in that movie where he lives in an insane asylum? That movie that I wasn't supposed to watch but I snuck into the living room anyway? That movie about Cuckoo's and crazy people…and nests?_

Quinn stares at the Calendar, recognizing it now. It's a child's creation – a glued together thing that Samantha had made for Quinn's birthday last year. All the months showing pictures of the two of them, and crayon drawings…some of the dates had been highlighted and colored, representing holidays and fun family trips. This calendar should be in the Lima dump – thrown away months ago, with other things of no more use in the Fabray household. This calendar should no longer exist. And as Quinn stares at it, the month of August beckoning her forward, she watches in horror as the pages flip of their own accord. With no wind or breeze, or hand to propel their movements. They _flip, and flip, and flip_ …until they land on the month of June – of the year 1994…even though this Calendar only went to December of 1993 once upon a time…the picture is not as Quinn remembered it - A picture of Samantha on the beach in her bathing suit, building a sandcastle – colored butterflies and stickers swirl around the edges. And like an old Nickelodeon the picture moves, as if captured on a video camera. And Quinn can see the sand blowing in the wind, she watches Samantha as she digs out a sandcastle…she smells the salt in the air. She hears her voice.

"Hey, Sis!"

"Sammie?"

"I miss you out here you know…it's lonely." Quinn pulls up her hand to trace her outline on the paper, but when her skin touches the calendar, her finger comes back burnt and red – a blister already forming. She screeches tearfully bringing her scalded skin to her lips to suck on the wounded flesh. And the calendar begins to burn, a red, rabid flame. Samantha smiles. "It's about time you joined me, Quinnie. We don't like waiting." The paper folds and smolders before her eyes, warping her sister's image into something barely recognizable before disintegrating into ash. And when Quinn looks down, tears in her eyes – she remembers the Barbie doll still clutched within her palm. And like a lightning bolt to the haunting in her chest, the plastic neck of Tannie Barbie swivels around on it's small axis, and plastic pupils turn to settle on Quinn Fabray, that smirk mocking her – and Quinn wants to drop it, she wants to _burn_ it. But before she can, a small plastic hand grabs for her wrist, dragging five identical paper-thin nails down the skin, drawing blood. And Tannie's mouth opens – a warped, dangerous thing. All pointed teeth and rotten snarls.

"We'll get you, Quinn… _you can't hide from us_."It growls into her flesh, and Quinn drops the tainted toy, her sobs real this time and wracking her body over and over again. She falls to the floor, knees to her chest – and it isn't until thirty minutes later that her Father barges in, smelling of liquor and tobacco to see what the ruckus is, that he finds her – rocking back and forth in a _My Little Pony_ bath towel. He carries her to the hall bathroom silently, and he lets her wash up in peace, the tears still falling. And when he carries her back to her bedroom, he lets her sob again – her head shaking back and forth, protesting vehemently, as if her life depended on it. And with a sigh, he takes her to their bedroom, to sleep between her two broken parents. And as Quinn lay there, terrified and sobbing, she doesn't let them know what she saw – and she tries to sleep despite the fact that when she returned after her bath – it was gone. The room immaculate, as if never touched, the Barbie gone, the Calendar, vanished like smoke on clear water.

And Quinn stares at the tiny trail of five nails, the blood already scabbing on her wrist in the night – she watched her Father bandage it after her bath…and she knows – that she is facing something much more terrifying than death.

Quinn Fabray is facing the devil.


End file.
